by Poppy Dolan
‘And she’s twice the size of most six month olds,’ I say, both self-deprecating and totally proudly. Another odd mix of feelings parenthood brings out in you. I know my kid is the greatest in the world, but I don’t want anyone else to know I know it, in case they think I’m being some kind of mushy, arrogant dick. But she really is the best.
He rolls his eyes in my direction. ‘She’s perfect, just perfect. Aren’t you, sweet chicken?’ He tickles her under her well-padded knees and I swear Cherry does that mock-shy head dip, hiding away to one side and giggling, as if to say, ‘Oh, no, not at all. Little old me? But do please keep up the flattery for as long as you have breath in your body.’
I must make a note for a future, grown-up Cherry: gay men can be delicious, but they’re not on your menu. And, suddenly, it hits me – the next blog post. Things I need to tell my daughter when she’s older. But will most likely forget. I scrabble to dig my phone out again and make a better note.
‘You and that phone, love. It’s been buzzing and beeping all day, you can hardly drag your eyes away. Doesn’t make a guy feel special as he handles his clay balls, you know.’
I bite down my smile. Mustn’t give anything away. Way too soon to get into it all. I don’t even know what’s happening, so how could I explain it?
‘Sorry, just… er, well…’ The thing is, I’m not ready to confess all. But I’m spectacularly bad at thinking of excuses. When I was hiding my early pregnancy at work drinks events, I went totally overboard and told everyone in excruciating detail that I was taking powerful antibiotics for a UTI.
Will lowers one dark eyebrow. ‘Not interrupting a sexting session with your other half, am I? Happy for you, and all that, but,’ he drops his voice, ‘here? I applaud you for being able to think sexy thoughts surrounded by so many cupcake boxes.’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. Ted is still so far in the dog house he could open his own kennel. No, it’s just… anyway, I’ll put it away now. Let’s get these little espresso cups for painting, shall we? Not too expensive, a quick project for small people who bore easily and I’m sure plenty of our target demographic of middle-class parents enjoy a Nespresso pod on a Sunday morning. And little Obsidian’s artwork will make it that more enjoyable.’
‘Good thinking!’ Will places four carefully into the bottom of the trolley. My phone vibrates again in my bag and he eyes me. But I don’t react.
There are three beeps as we debate ceramic paint colour choices (a soft palette of blues, greens and yellows to keep it gender neutral and hopefully avoid the primary colour garish splashes of most craft projects with toddlers), and more vibrating as we turn the corner into the papercrafts section.
Just as I’m trying to smother more phone alerts by talking up the merits of black sugar paper over white – good for Halloween projects and snowy Christmas ones, and more forgiving of dribbles and snot smudges, maybe – Will puffs out his cheeks. ‘Seriously, Stewart.’
‘I’m really not keen on that nickn—’
‘What is happening? Are you waiting on a kidney transplant? Are you an online bingo addict and this is a cry for help?’
I hold up my hands. ‘Sorry! I’ll just switch it off – it is getting annoying.’
But as I hold my phone in my palm, Will swoops in. ‘I have to know just what is going—’ He catches me off guard and in a split-second tilts the screen towards himself and squints. ‘But this is all… about… First-Time…’ He looks at me. He looks so deeply into my eyes that I think he can read all my darkest secrets. Like, the pants I’m wearing today are my very last clean pair and I’m eyeing up Ted’s boxers for tomorrow rather than do a wash.
‘Do you have a Google alert on her or… but this is her account, her notifications… Stevie, are you…?’
After a beat that seems to last until sunset, I grimace and nod.
‘Oh my GOD!’ He startles the granny behind us, who is looking at heart-shaped hole punches.
Will grabs me firmly by the shoulders. ‘This is immense! This is incredible!’
The blue-rinse crafter has her eyes trained on us now, suspicious we’ve found the bargain bin deal of the day.
Whereas all I can think is: You’re busted, Stevie, you’re busted.
Will pays for our exploratory haul in near-silence, turning to look at me every now and then with his mouth opening but no noise following. Then he snaps his jaw closed again and shakes his head, shovelling paint brushes and jumbo pencils into his jute shopper. He doesn’t even say anything as we troop back to the park, to relieve a now-probably-knackered Nelle.
She holds up her hands to shield her eyes from the sun as we approach. ‘Hello, shoppers! Got anything good for me?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t BELIEVE!’ Will exclaims, folding his long legs down onto a scuffed bench. ‘This one has been hiding a very big light under her very big bush.’
Nelle guffaws. ‘Wait, what?’
‘Will you tell her, or shall I?’
I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘It’s, ah, it’s all a bit—’
‘She’s First-Time Mum! Our Stevie!’ He jabs a thumb in my direction. ‘The actual First-Time Mum. The overnight blogging sensation, right under our noses!’
‘Night-night, bogey sensor!’ Olive squeals, flinging herself into Will’s lap. With a skilled hand, he quickly protects his privates from the action. Esme follows suit, locking her arms around her dad’s neck and kissing his stubbly cheek. ‘Oh, Dad, I missed you so much. What did you bring me?’
His gaze on me is broken and he gives them both a firm squeeze and a matching pair of sloppy kisses.
‘My darlings. Have you been good for Nelle?’
‘Very much almost.’ Olive nods.
‘They’ve been angels, honestly. But, hang on, rewind a bit. Stevie, you—?’
I press my nails into my palms and studiously admire the rusted green paint of the railings. ‘It’s just been this little hobby, something I never thought anyone would be interested in. But I had to get things off my chest.’ I slap my hands to my cheeks. ‘Oh god, I’m a really, truly, ungrateful mother, aren’t I? I have this gorgeous kid and all I do is moan and complain and harp on about broken sleep and no time to get my split ends sorted. This is’ – I look at their blank faces, and then at Cherry trying to get one socked foot in her mouth – ‘this is why I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want you guys to think badly of me.’
‘Badly!’ Will almost explodes. ‘This is BRILLIANT!’
‘Brill-ee-ant, brill-ee-ant!’ the twins sing and Cherry gurgles in glee from her pram. They set off at high speed to do a lap of the climbing frame with their new mantra filling the air and their arms pumping out a mad little dance.
He points in their direction. ‘That is the physical embodiment of how I feel about it, actually. You’ve been saying what we’ve all been feeling. Surely all those Likes told you that? If people thought you were ungrateful that post would have died a death and not become the hit it is. I just wish it was my blog that had gone so big. Or I wish I had been clever enough to start a blog in the first place.’
My cheeks flare. I don’t think I’ve thought of myself in any way clever since one of the last product launches I did, before getting pregnant with Cherry and my brain turned to mush six weeks in.
‘I agree with Will. You’ve just found the way to say what we all know to be true. There are moments you cherish in this mumm—parenting lark’ – Nelle catches Will’s eye and grins sheepishly – ‘and there are moments when you hope – no, you pray – that someone will magically whiz the hands of time forward to a place when your best jewellery isn’t pinched to be used as “pirate’s loot” while you have one boob hanging out and you’re signing for the delivery guy.’
‘Or a time when you can poo perfectly in peace, without small hands clutching at your knees and moaning, “But you said we could do gliiiiiitter, Dad! Now, Dad, now!’ Will shakes his head mournfully. ‘I miss solo pooing.’
My heart rate low
ers from that of a hummingbird to a knackered pigeon. ‘Or when you could leave cushions and throws on your sofas, nice Habitat ones, without having to move them to a safe, vom-free radius. Mine are now just permanently in the conservatory. I’ve given up.’
Will lays his hand on mine. ‘We should never give up our soft furnishings, Stevie. That’s how they win, in the end. They take away our last shred of humanity.’
The laughter that escapes Nelle and me echoes across the park. I flop down on the bench, too. ‘So it’s OK to carry on, do you think? With the blog, I mean? With all this attention… I’m terrified Ted will see it, somehow. I don’t think he’s going to be as understanding as you guys, given that I have ripped into him and been cheered on by a few thousand people.’ I fiddle with my wedding band.
‘How will he know? You’re doing it all anonymously.’ Nelle rubs Joe’s head gently as she paces up and down with him, a slight dip in her knees as she does the unconscious jiggling no parent can stop at any time when there’s a chance of baby sleep. ‘We didn’t guess, and you’ve been right under our blimmin’ noses these past weeks. Besides, in what you’ve said – with all his work commitments and travel – he doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who signs up to follow mummy bloggers.’
‘No, definitely not. But… it doesn’t feel right to keep airing our dirty laundry like this. He doesn’t get his say, even if I can’t possibly imagine how he would defend swanning off like he did. I mean, Cherry can’t control her reflux and throwing up on my best suede handbag or having so many lovely fat folds that she could hold toast in them. So as long as no one can work out it’s her, it’s a different thing. She’s protected. But with Ted – I’ve got to stop blogging about Ted. Right?’
Will squints and Nelle puckers her lips.
‘Or at least give him a chance to put things right before I moan about him in cyberspace again?’
Nelle’s lips relax into a half-smile. ‘Now that sounds fair.’
‘Caitlin Moran says if you’re going to moan about something for more than five minutes, you’ve got to be prepared to actually do something about it. I remember that from the days when I read whole books. Or just magazine columns. So, I’ve had my five minutes of famous-ish moaning. When Ted is back tomorrow, and he gets over his jet lag—’
‘And you open what I assume will be a huge and wildly extravagant gift,’ Will cuts in.
I roll my eyes. ‘We’ll see about that part. But when he’s up for it, I’ll suggest a family day out. And leave the planning to him. And the bag packing. And all the car seat in-and-out wrestling – this kid must be allergic to buckles, the way she fights it. But Ted can tackle it. See if that helps him realise how “fine” it is to do it all alone.’
Nelle now full-on grins. ‘Oh, so when you said a chance for him to redress the balance, you really meant a chance to punish him! Ha! I love it.’
I can see I have wandered away from my karma-balancing intentions and am now more a little bit more in the an eye-for-an-eye territory. A blood-shot, sleepless eye, to be exact.
‘If I really want to punish him, I’d make him pack my bag so I could disappear to a boutique hotel for the weekend. Eeep, speaking of disappearing, I should make tracks so we don’t fall into the dreaded 5pm nap death trap.’
Will sits bolt upright. ‘Christ, is it getting that late already?! I am not risking that either, not for a month of Sunday lie-ins. Come on, ladies, let’s hustle.’
As we walk away, an unlikely line up – like the Reservoir Dogs but with sleek buggies rather than suits – I let myself dream of a blissful family day. Maybe a walk by the river, feeding the ducks, sipping hot coffee that I haven’t had to make myself while Ted points out interesting things to Cherry – boats, weeping willows, non-traditional family structures. My gorgeous girl and the man I married. A perfectly solid unit of three. A time for us to breathe, relax, do nothing but work on everything. Talk, listen. I really think, right about now, that we need it.
Draft blog post
First-Time Mum
Things to remember to tell my daughter. Which I will forget.
I’m not sure I have any big chunks of wisdom I could confidently pass on to Big Baby. If I was truly wise, I’m sure that I wouldn’t forget my PIN number every fortnight. But sometimes, as I’m doing one of the mindless bits of parenting: putting on my third load of washing of the day, warbling away with ‘Incy Wincy’, cleaning fluff out from between tiny, pudgy toes, these odd little details about life come to me and I think, ‘I MUST remember to tell my girl this. It will save her precious moments of annoyance when she grows up.’ So I’m going to keep a running list. And this is where I start:
Chapter 8
Ted had been really receptive to the idea of some quality family time when he got back, smelling of peaty whisky and taxi air fresheners. He’d bought a really lovely plush panda for Cherry, which she took to her heart straight away, trying to gouge out and eat its eyes. His business exec blanket from the flight was for me, because I’m ‘always cold’. I decided to let that slide and focus on the fact he’d thought of our girl first and foremost. Some brownie points there.
‘OK, well, I’ll leave it all in your hands, then,’ I’d enunciated slowly. ‘Where we go. When. What stuff we need in the change bag. Yeah?’ I’d been so casual about it, so cool. Not at all the trap-laying wife.
‘Hmm? Absolutely,’ he’d replied, bunging his suitcase contents into the washing machine – darks, whites, woollens. Ted has a severe case of laundry blindness and I’ve given up trying to lead him through it.
And so, are we sauntering by the River Thames, hand in hand, sharing a honeycomb ice cream? Are we at the Roald Dahl museum, teaching Cherry her first revolting rhymes as a harmonised family unit? Are we just at the local park with a picnic already prepared, simply enjoying the lovely area we live in?
Are we fuck.
We’re at Twist and Bounce. A place so wholly demonic that they took the hell that is an airless, windowless soft play centre and added trampolines and random bursts of Euro synth dance music, which upon hearing you’re supposed to drop everything and run into the central play area and join in a crazed ‘flash mob’ Macarena. I don’t come here on a Tuesday, let alone a weekend. But this was Ted’s best idea. Some might say, rightly, his only idea.
The noise pummels my ears as screams and screeches ping off the hard painted walls and right down my ear canals. The coffee is – frankly – shit: watery and thin. I’d rather have my usual stone-cold instant at home. At least I’d know the cup had been properly cleaned. And it wouldn’t have cost £3.50.
This place is not at all relaxing for me and it’s way too much stimulation for Cherry as a six month old. Large toddlers whoosh and wheel around her, dangerously close to treading on a precious fat finger. Her head whips this way and that as she tries to take them all in and I can read her little squint: Hey, how can I stare at you if you run so fast! Come here and let me chew an item of your clothing until we’re friends! And as she licks one red ball from the pit, and then a green one, and then another red – as if tasting whether the colour has any effect on flavour – I shudder to think what human substances have been left behind on those balls and in which decade they were last cleaned. Judging by the smell of urine hanging around, barely covered by air freshener, I’m not altogether confident.
But I won’t go in and rescue her from this berserk place. No. She’s not in any real danger and Ted has made his choice, so he’s in charge. Even when he picks up Cherry and looks over to where I’m sitting and pulls a wonky grin, as if to say, ‘Am I doing this right? Do I look weird?’ I choose to pretend I can’t catch the drift and I just send a jaunty thumbs up back. No, this isn’t right. Yes, you look weird, your lanky frame awkwardly squeezed into a ball pit meant for the under-5s. But on your head be it.
I’m going to sit here, upgrade myself to a can of Diet Coke and do nothing and try not to even think anything. Not – is she hungry for lunch yet? Shall I start warming t
he pouch in some hot water? Not – is she having a bad reflux day? Are the wipes close by? That is all on Ted today, whether he’s appreciated it or not.
When I come back to my little table with my nicely chilled can, I take a long, slow breath. Mindfulness. Calm. First World Problems.
Yes, OK, this isn’t a pottering-about session in Marlow with a cream tea, but I’m here, we’re all well and we’re lucky to have the disposable income to do family trips like this. Even if they are to a mostly abandoned industrial estate just outside town. I have a cold fizzy drink to sip alone and that is a very fine thing in itself.
I take a quick snap of the can on the table, just to remind myself to stop moaning and start enjoying the details. Just then, something flashes up in my First-Time Mum Messenger inbox.
Hi First-Time Mum! I’m a junior features ed at the Metro. Wondering if you’d write a short piece for us about parenting in the blogging age, or another angle if you’ve been thinking of one, thanks. We can provide a standard fee. Let me know. X
My mouth goes dry and I knock back some of my drink, the bubbles threatening to burst out of my nose. Metro? Short piece? FEE?!
I take a screenshot and ping it to my WhatsApp group.
Stevie: OMG, GUYS, WHAAAAAAT DO I DO?
After ten twitchy minutes I get a reply.
Will: WHAH! Amazing!!! You do it, of course. Money and fame – what’s not to love? You’re High Wycombe’s answer to Belle du Jour!
Nelle: Hang on, I’m doling out fish fingers for lunch. Belle Whosit? And yes, DO IT, STEWART.
Will: Belle du Jour was a secret blogging call girl who made a mint from her ‘sexploits’ (ugh). I think our Stevie could be quids in here. First stop Metro, next stop: Glamour! Psychologies! Red!
Nelle: Will she have to do sexploits?! I didn’t think we’d forgiven Ted that quickly… ;)
Despite the hand clamped over my mouth, I am giggling hysterically through my fingers.