Confessions of a First-Time Mum

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘Well, then,’ I say, trying to lighten the gloomy mood that’s suddenly crept up on us, ‘mission accomplished. Nothing wrong with a bit of Peppa if it gets the job done. God knows I’ve watched enough of it in a desperate attempt to entertain Cherry while I can eat some cheese on toast without having my hair pulled. And it’s not the worst animation out there. Could have been sodding Paw Patrol.’

  He looks at me and smiles, but not the kind of real smile that makes your eyes wrinkle. A sort of flat smile. ‘It’s not Peppa per se I object to. It’s… Oh, this is going to sound pathetic.’

  ‘More pathetic than crying in the loos because someone asked you to price up a christening?’ I raise my eyebrows and his eyes do crease this time.

  ‘That was not pathetic, Stevie. But, well, the thing is,’ he rubs his hand over his chin, ‘they’ve both killed off their Mummy Pig.’

  I blink. This is some kind of parenting speak that has passed me by. Clearly I haven’t been hitting the parenting forums enough in the early hours. ‘Pardon?’

  Will points to a gap in both the line-ups of wall stickers, between Daddy Pig and George. Identical gaps. ‘That’s where Mummy Pig used to be. I should know, I spent forty-five minutes making sure they were all on perfectly straight and without air bubbles. And then a few weeks later, all of a sudden, she’s gone. The girls have scratched her off. Found two sticky balls under their pillows when I went hunting.’ His hand is at his temple now.

  ‘So… they love a male parent then!’ I chirrup.

  Will shakes his head just a fraction. ‘No, that’s not it – I don’t think. You see Adrian is Daddy, I’m Dad. But, more than that, I’m the one who’s at home all the time, I’m the one who makes cakes with them, cleans them down after a baked-bean lunch, mostly I put them to bed and wipe their bums and all that. I’m the…’ – his voice drops into a gravelly whisper – ‘I’m the mummy, traditionally speaking, and they’ve removed me. I’m invisible.’

  A tiny shudder passes down my back. ‘No, no. That can’t be right. It must just be… random. They were feeling crafty and Mummy Pig just happened to be closest.’

  ‘But they chose the same character, at the same time. That must mean something—?’ He’s turned to look at me now and I can see small grey bags under his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. I am not the only one having sleepless nights, it seems; for some, there are other worries keeping them up at night.

  Without thinking, I reach out and squeeze his arm. It’s like solid clay under my fingers, only giving a fraction to my touch. I quickly drop my hold as a flash of a memory of Ted hits me – my hands, his arms, a wild, distant look in his eyes: a really rude memory, and one it is not cool for me to be thinking of in the bedroom of two toddlers. Blimey, how long has it been since I touched Ted like that, even incidentally? Even in the kitchen, passing by to grab the milk? Let alone in flagrante. I shudder again and remind myself what the particular topic of anxiety is here. And it’s not my sub-zero sex life.

  I spot two matching Jelly Cat rabbits on the beds: one grey, one pink. The grey bunny is missing both ears and has what looks like a paint splodge on its stomach; the pink bunny has a leg roughly stitched back on with black thread and is missing nearly all the fur on its face.

  I clear my throat. ‘It’s The Velveteen Rabbit,’ I say with confidence. ‘Look at those bunnies – I bet they are only so… worn because the girls love them. They get taken everywhere and cuddled and squashed and decorated with love, I bet?’ Will nods. ‘So they didn’t peel off Mummy Pig because she’s somehow not important or their least favourite. They went for her first because she’s the best. She’s the most important and they just wanted her close. That’s why they put her under their pillows. To be close.’

  Will’s eyes flick to the ceiling as he mulls my cod-psychology. ‘Hmmm.’ It seems to be trickling through. ‘Perhaps. Adrian has definitely said I’m making too much of it. But when your whole day is fairy cakes, beans, wipes and the works of Julia Donaldson – and each day is the same day, over and over again – you’re desperate for it to mean something. I’m lucky to get this time with them, and I’m happy to be the one at home, really I am. We had the girls through a surrogate and all that organisation and paperwork and waiting was too much to juggle with a full-time job as it was, much less when two squalling babies came along. So I’m happy with my lot in life; I’m so happy we got to have the family we dreamed off, and in one fell swoop. But, even so, the thought that you’ve been picked off and discarded by the beautiful tyrants you love so much is pretty heart-breaking, you know?’

  I nod. I really do know. What I hadn’t known was that the draining nature of motherhood is not just a feminist issue. It’s the soul-sucking nature of parenthood. And it’s universal: man, woman or any combination of the two. It’s only because we love and worship these little darlings so much that their smallest, most inconsequential movement can cut right into our hearts.

  The metallic clang of the door knocker makes us both jump and dislodges my Jerry Springer-style Final Thoughts.

  ‘That’ll be Nelle!’ Will pulls his shoulders up just a fraction and rubs his hands together. ‘Time for cup of tea number two, and to check those girls aren’t smearing Play-Doh into the Amazon Echo again.’

  * * *

  ‘So when the brief said “French cuisine, Parisian décor”, I thought – great. Fab. Simple, classy and our caterers can do top-of-the-line French food for 125 people. And so we get cracking on planning this diamond wedding – it’s the two sons sorting it as a surprise for their parents, which seemed lovely, very Waltons. And I email them both the plans, the estimates. And one brother, Grahame, emails straight back saying we need to leave a big space clear for the dancers to come in and do their thing. Then the other – I forget his name, let’s call him Not Grahame – pings in saying “Wot dancers?!”’ Nelle leans forward to slurp some tea, well clear of Joe’s head in the sling at her front, and then dives straight back into her story, red-faced with the walk here and the pleasure at retelling such a palaver. ‘And Grahame says, “The can-can dancers.” And again Not Grahame is like “Wot?!?!” – all misspelled and loads of crazy punctuation, the works. So then Grahame starts to explain it’s the Moulin Rouge theme they talked about, how his wife Steph has her heart set on it and Not Grahame starts going bonkers, saying how mad that is as a theme for a couple in their eighties and Dad has his dicky heart and Mum won’t appreciate either a heart attack or seeing ladies’ frilly knickers flashed at her over her quiche. And then Grahame hits back saying he’s the only stylish one in the family and they should listen to him and Steph on this. And Not Grahame says he wouldn’t trust Steph to choose him a stylish pair of socks, let alone a huge party with all their nearest and dearest. And then all sorts of stuff starts flying, about stag dos and broken Action men and why Mum only ever put Grahame’s angel on the top of the Christmas tree. Do you know, I think they completely forgot I was CCed in to the lot of it.’ She ruffles a hand through her pixie crop. ‘I mean, I was LOVING it, don’t get me wrong, but I also had my son’s school texting me, saying he was in detention for vaping. Vaping?! And this chap’ – she nodded down at Joe – ‘going through some bonkers cluster-feeding obsession. So I was boobs out, at the PC, Googling how dangerous it is for a young teen to vape and whether anyone had ever died of angina at a can-can show. Sorry.’ She looks in Will’s direction.

  ‘It’s OK. I know women have boobs. They’re not what made me gay. It was frilly knickers, actually.’

  Nelle laughs; a big, throaty cackle, and Joe jerks awake with a yelp. ‘Oh, Christ, here we go, milk machine time again.’ She busies herself unwrapping her stretchy sling and unclicking her feeding bra at her shoulder, underneath her top. ‘So that’s my day, all seven shades of… silly of it. And you guys?’

  I push another rice cake in Cherry’s direction. Usually she can get through five or six easily in one sitting, without really being hungry, but she is so transfixed by the Play-Doh version
of Saturday Kitchen going on in front of her that she doesn’t even register me. It’s lovely for once not to have to desperately halt a meltdown in a social situation – and every sip of hot tea is utter bliss – but just a split-second image of that Mummy Pig-less scene upstairs comes to me. I start joining in the cookery lesson to shake it off, and to avoid Nelle’s question. I have a feeling she’ll think I’m a wimp for not telling all to Ted yesterday. But it’s hard to get out your rawest emotions when you are sweltering with blind, hot rage.

  ‘So, what’s on the menu, ladies?’

  Olive purses her lips and thinks. ‘Sushi. And Wotsits.’

  ‘Ooooh, sushi! Haven’t had that in ages. Could I have some tuna sashimi and a few cucumber maki, please?’

  Esme eyes the green lumps in front of them. ‘Ummmm, yeah. Here you go.’ She plops a tennis-ball-sized blob in front of me.

  I haven’t played with Play-Doh in decades. This could be a phase later down the line with Cherry that I could totally embrace. I’d love to get rolling and squishing with her, and see what her sharp little mind can concoct. Plus, as activities go, it’s halfway mindful. I borrow a plastic rolling pin that neither girl is using and start flattening my lump out into seaweed sheets. As I’m cutting out a square with a funny rotating wheel with spindly edges, Olive lowers her thick dark brows at me. ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Well, sushi is held together by seaweed.’

  Both girls stick out their tongues and happily shriek, ‘Bleurgh!’

  Will interjects. ‘Not just off the beach, though. Special edible seaweed that’s very good for you.’

  Esme continues to mime vomiting and Olive nods in approval.

  I may have opened another can of stinky worms there, so I push on. ‘So you’ve got your… wrapper. And you put rice on top.’ I crumble some Doh all over my wonky rectangle. ‘And then the cucumber sticks.’ I roll some cigarette-like sticks and lay them inside. ‘Then it all gets wrapped up into one big sausage and we chop it up.’ I’ve never managed a Swiss roll but strangely I feel unbelievably proud of my jumbo sushi roll. I chop one piece off the end to demonstrate, then carefully manoeuvre the rest in front of the girls so they have one end each to work on. With matching tongues now stuck out in matching concentration, they begin their work. And Cherry sits, hypnotised, a thin strand of drool running from her chin to her neckerchief. God bless those baby neckerchiefs.

  ‘You’re good at that,’ Nelle says in a half-whisper, so as not to disturb the sushi chefs and their training.

  ‘Making Play-Doh raw fish? Well, that’s certainly a career avenue for me if PR goes belly-up.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘No, entertaining kids. And without even a big red nose or comedy shoes.’ She winks. ‘That’s a whole heap harder than entertaining adults, trust me. Because with adults you always have watered-down beer and Prosecco. At our parties, as long as we feed and water the grown-ups, it’s a doddle. But kids’ parties—? Jeeeeeez.’ She pauses to unlatch Joe and bring him to her shoulder for a burp. ‘No, with kids you need entertainment, and then back-up entertainment, and music, and games, and party bags.’

  Will chimes in. ‘And don’t forget allergies, intolerances, anti-sugar parents…’

  ‘Bouncy castle, petting zoo, giant cake in the theme of that week’s favourite thing…’ Nelle ticks off on one hand as the other rubs circles on Joe’s back. She really is a pro at this.

  I shrug. ‘I like big groups of kids. I was an only child and didn’t have many cousins, so I was always seeking out where other children were, when I had the chance. Only so many album sleeve notes I could read in my mum’s attic. When I was seventeen I went and did one of those American summer camps, as a counsellor, you know? Loved it. Maybe that’s why I got into PR – always looking for a chance to chat!’ My breath runs out as I’m reminded how far I am from that bubbling twenty-something now, who took a badly paid PR internship just to find a place in London and be let loose on the world. Even when I just had a new brand of cough mixture to push. I loved it.

  Nelle smuggles Joe back under her striped top for his next course, on her other boob. ‘And talking of talking, how did it go with your husband. Ted, yes? I’m rubbish with names sometimes. I keep referring to these two as Olive and Humous in my head.’ She tips her head towards the twins and both Will and Esme look deeply crestfallen. ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m an idiot.’

  I squidge a tiny ball of Doh under my index finger. ‘Well, it didn’t go, now you mention it. He dropped the bombshell that he had to go to Hong Kong. For a week. Leaving today.’ I turn my wrist so my watch face is showing. ‘In fact, by now he’s well settled into business class with a G&T and a Vin Diesel movie, if past form is anything to go by. I spent all of Sunday evening just trying not to shove his head in the toaster.’

  ‘Not that violence is ever the answer,’ Will says for the benefit of his daughters, while miming a haymaker move well behind them. I smile.

  ‘Blimey!’ Nelle’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline for a moment. ‘Did he ask you if that was OK? Did he even apologise for stuffing up your week and laying all this extra work on you?’

  I press my lips together into a hard line, a cold churn of anger starting up again below my stomach. ‘Nope. He just said I would be fine. Fine. Fine with all the night feeds and early starts and loads of washing and eating toast for dinner alone and talking to the walls. All fine. Totally, absolutely, peachy fine.’

  Will pulls up a chair to the kitchen table and sits down next to me, suddenly jabbing his finger into the oilcloth, hitting a mallard in the throat. ‘That reminds me of this brilliant blog piece I read this morning – I was meaning to forward it to you both. Here.’ He whips his phone out from his back pocket and swipes a few times. ‘This mummy blogger said the same thing – her husband swanning off with a casual “You’ll be fine” and how he just didn’t get it at all. And the pressure to look like everything’s fine, all the time, when it’s not. Even to a little old lady at a bus stop.’

  Every single part of me freezes. I feel my phone vibrate in my handbag, at my feet. The link Will has just sent.

  It can’t be.

  But even from the first line of his message I can see an all-too-familiar URL. I can feel my breath becoming a solid block of ice in my lungs. I glug back some tea to try and shift it but end up spluttering desperately.

  ‘Steady on, chick.’ Nelle rubs my back gently. She turns to Will. ‘It’s not one of those online writers who’s got cool trainers and pictures of their kids in front of graffiti, is it? Because I don’t need another way to feel old and lame in Mothercare, thanks.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t actually know anything about her. “First-Time Mum.” She’s anonymous; no pictures or anything. It was this other blogger I follow who reposted it on her Facebook page. It’s been viewed 12,000 times already, just since last night.’

  The details of Will’s impossibly perfect cream kitchen start to swim in front of my eyes. Twelve… thousand? In one night? No. No, that can’t be right.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Will’s hand reaches out to mine. ‘You’ve gone pale.’

  ‘Uh… um, sleepless night catching up with me. I’d better get us back – hopefully Cherry will nap in the pram. Thanks,’ my voice wobbles, ‘thanks so much for the tea. Next time at mine, yup?’ I don’t know why I say this. Next to this dream house of Will’s, our cottage is going to look like a doll’s house made in the dark out of a shoebox and sticky-backed plastic. I just need to get out. Get far away from the conversation. Because with everything weird about my life that I’ve already, unintentionally, shared with these two, I am in no way ready to reveal, ‘Oh, yeah, and I put all my darkest mum thoughts into a secret blog.’

  No one knows about First-Time Mum. And that’s how it’s got to stay.

  Cherry gives quite the yell of disapproval that she’s being taken away from her very own toddler tag team of entertainers, and if I hadn’t stumbled on this scary problem, Will would probably have had
to forcibly eject me from under his roof in about five hours’ time. Olive and Esme are an absolute gift in keeping my fractious wonder calm and happy. To placate her, I find some baby biscotti in the bottom of my bag, only slightly stale, and she gums a chocolate one, the cocoa dribble oozing all over her lovely chops. But the mess is worth it for the peace.

  I manoeuvre the pram out of Will’s hall without damaging anything stylish, thank god, and start to drag the pram behind me across the gravel. I’m leaving big, deep, unsightly tracks behind me but speed is of the essence here.

  Just as I reach the big box hedges that mark the entrance to Will’s place, I hear a telltale reflux hiccup and then silence. It’s always the silence that’s the worry.

  Cherry is covered in brown sick, and so is the pram cover. She smiles broadly at me. ‘Oh, darling,’ I moan wearily, pushing her into the shadow of the hedge so we’re out of sight as I whip off the sodden layers and try and assemble something clean from the change bag slung under the pram. ‘Your timing, Cherry Alice Cameron, is impeccable, as ever. Couldn’t have just waited till we were at home and on the easy-wipe play mat, huh? No, no, no, no.’ I’m not really annoyed. Cherry can’t help it, poor mite, I know that. I’m just tired. Tired of cleaning up vom, tired of being embarrassed by it, tired of coming away smelling like the last dodgy pint of milk left at the back of the newsagent’s fridge. In fact, I think I’ve just smeared some sick across my forehead. Oh, wonderful.

  Cherry is safely in her emergency onesie and I’ve done the best I can with wet wipes on the pram cover. Now to dispose of the evidence in Will’s wheelie bin. Which has its own timber shed thing. Of course it does.