Confessions of a First-Time Mum

by Poppy Dolan

  I’m re-dressing her on the back seat, giving her another once-over with wipes to make doubly sure there’s no faint tidal marks of poo-nami still on her.

  ‘Ssssh, sssssh, Cherry Bomb. Humpy Dumpty sat on a wall…’ I start to sing, but my voice cracks and my eyes blur. Even six months in, I have an eggshell-thin defence to public shame when my baby screams the house down, and this time with an extra pooey whiff.

  Ted is in the driver’s seat, tapping the wheel erratically, seemingly oblivious that I’m about to lose it. Why have I leapt in like this when he could be sorting her out? Now my anger wells up again, fighting for space against the shame and anxiety behind my ribs.

  ‘Ted,’ I say, through tightly clamped teeth, ‘I need five minutes right now. Please come and dress your daughter.’ I clamber out of the car awkwardly, bum first, and just start walking. I hear Cherry’s cries go up an octave and there’s a twist in my stomach as I realise she wants me, that she thinks I’m abandoning her, but I keep walking for self-preservation. Better at a distance from my girl than breaking down right in front of her.

  Keep going till you get to that bus stop, I tell myself in an eerily calm serial-killer kind of voice. Don’t get on the bus. Don’t get on the bus. Just sit on the bench. Breathe.

  Once I’ve counted some breaths in and out, in and out, and I can hear Cherry has calmed down to a basic whinge-cry level, I start to walk slowly back. Ted has Cherry on his lap and she’s gumming the steering wheel between complaints, smacking the knobs on the display panel as if they somehow caused her gastro-pyrotechnics.

  Ted looks at me, creases running along his forehead. ‘OK? I’ll clip her in, then we can head home.’

  Numbly, I follow him around to the other side of the car. Cherry gives her usual kicks of protest at being safeguarded from terrible injury but Ted ploughs on and soon she’s in. He turns around and pulls me to his chest.

  It’s the first prolonged hug between us that I can remember for quite a while. It feels so good. His arms have me locked in, snuggly, like the baby’s car seat straps. We need to do this more often. Not the public shitting, but the consolidating afterwards.

  ‘It’s all going to be fine,’ he says into my hair, and for once that word doesn’t trigger a flare in me. For once, it’s nice to hear someone say that and feel – even if it isn’t totally accurate – that they’re going to steer the ship for a while and I can just leave it all in their hands. I don’t have to be the captain of mealtimes and bath times and poo management and scream diffusing. That’s all I really want out of Ted: not some unrealistic dreamboat that polishes the floor as he walks through a room reading poetry, but just to share the burdens on weekends, as well as the good bits.

  ‘We’re all clean now. She might zonk out in the car on the way back, if we’re lucky. If I’d shat out half my body weight I’d be pretty tired. And then how about we do some real good old fashioned family fun while she’s asleep and hit the McDonald’s drive-thru, yeah? A couple of cheese burgers, just like Mum used to make. And an apple pie to incinerate the roof of your mouth. Good times!’

  My chest loosens and I press my head further into his polo shirt. I let out one big lungful of air.

  ‘And, you know, it makes me think of that mindfulness stuff you tell me about – this whole… adventure.’

  ‘It does?’ I crane my neck back to be able to look him in the eye. I had no idea he was even taking it in when I’ve talked about it.

  He nods, deadpan. ‘Think about the bright side to today: we never, never have to show our faces here, at this awful place, ever again. In fact, I think they would actively prevent it.’

  And now my jaw loosens, and I can smile. ‘Excellent point. Come on, I’m craving synthetic cheese now.’

  * * *

  There are some weird moments of happiness in family life. Ones I did not see coming. There are the predictable ones and they absolutely have their merits – when Ted throws Cherry into the air just by a few centimetres and catches her smoothly; when she sees her own reflection in the hall mirror and goes wide-eyed and freaked out, then melts into a cheesy grin for this beauty she’s spotted seconds later. But the weird ones have the extra layer of joy because they sneak up to you at the oddest times.

  Like just now, when I jolted awake in the passenger seat, probably from my own snores, and came to in the car foggy with burger smell and full of the people I love to the ends of the earth. Cherry is open-mouthed and dead asleep. I check my watch. Forty-five minutes, I’d say. Not too shabby. Maybe as she’s getting older she’s napping just that bit longer? Ted has bunched up his coat and is using it as a pillow against the driver’s side window. I must have nodded off after emotionally eating my greasy, cheesy delight and instead of taking us home and nudging me awake when we got there, he’s pulled into the McDonald’s car park and joined in this communal nap.

  So, here we are: perhaps not a Hallmark card snap but a picture of total happiness to me nonetheless. Is a baby ever as delightful as when it’s silent and immobile? Can you love a man more than when he facilitates snacking and sleep?

  Recharged with a micro-nap, I use the last sliver of phone battery to write a quick micro-post for the Facebook page. OK, so maybe combining a blogging career with family days isn’t going to be a blissful walk in the park. It’s probably going to be more like a roll in a shitty ball pit, but sometimes weird is right. For me, at least.

  The Beautiful Oddness of Parenthood

  When you have a rubbish, tearful day and it’s rescued by chips and a car nap.

  Picking up the ‘grown-up’ jokes in Shrek. If you’ve got to watch something thirty-seven times in a row, it might as well have hidden penis gags in it.

  Your baby lunges at you for a random chew and you get a gumming on your arm which is oddly warm and relaxing, like a very localised hydrotherapy treatment.

  The white noise sheep/owl/whirring of the fan is actually pretty peaceful to sleep with, TBH.

  You’d forgotten Play-Doh is really great.

  The Moana soundtrack. I mean, I literally feel bad for people who haven’t heard it. You’re welcome.

  Being in the park on a sunny Thursday mid-morning. OK, you’re not being mentally stimulated and you might have put your coat on over your PJs just to get out of the house, but isn’t it a bit great that you’re enjoying this lovely day, in the fresh air with a rosy-cheeked babe, and so many other suckers are stuck in a windowless office staring at a spreadsheet?

  Sucking up leftover fruit purée pouches. If you sploshed a bit of Cava in that, boom, you’d have a wicked Bellini. Not that I’d recommend too much of that while in charge of a minor etc, etc.

  So, come on then, parents the country over, what’s your weird moment of joy?

  First-Time Mum x

  I haven’t put a shout out like that before, actually asking for feedback, and it still makes me wobble as I hit ‘publish’ but there’s a bit more confidence there now, a little bit of past evidence that people are keen to engage. So let’s see. Let’s see how far First-Time Mum takes me. Because Stevie Cameron’s career definitely needs a new direction and this might just be it. Like Nelle said, in her terrifying clown get-up, my confidence has been stripped away by the early baby days. To be myself again and to be the best mum to Cherry, the best partner to Ted, I need to bring that confidence back. In a big way.

  Chapter 9

  Nelle’s house is just how I pictured: messy and vibrant and full of life. It would make a perfect backdrop for a Shirley Williams children’s book: you want to shove aside the newspapers on the sofa and snuggle down in the warmth of this family household and be absorbed.

  ‘I haven’t done anywhere as much tidying as I meant to last night!’ Nelle apologises straight after opening her front door. ‘So why don’t we keep everyone in the living room, hide the unfolded laundry and, er, everything else in the kitchen with the doors closed. Now, get Cherry settled on the play mat in there and we can get the kettle going and our asses into gear.
’

  I open my mouth to give my usual disclaimer about my darling and her reflux ruining material things, but Nelle beats me to it. ‘I don’t care if she’s sick on it. It all goes in the machine anyway.’

  I take Cherry out of the buggy and carry her through into the living room, carefully laying her down on the red and black striped play mat, underneath the dangling jungle creatures. You never know with Chezza whether she’ll find something interesting enough to keep her amused or just too much stimulation which sets off some noise, but we seem to be on the safe side here. She swipes and kicks at a fuzzy blue chameleon without a peep.

  Nelle’s carpets are a lovely light biscuit colour and a shudder hits me as I think of our weekend family fun. Surely that won’t happen again? Well, the Co-op is only a ten-minute drive if I need to make a dash for carpet cleaner and stain remover, and then there’s the local church for the holy water. I’m sure with three kids, Nelle has seen it all, not to mention the job of cleaning up after other people’s parties. I’ll take the risk today. I put my hands on my hips and survey the room. It’s a really good size: a long living room with two giant sofas and a few armchairs at the far end. An old PR skill creaks into life somewhere in my brain: sussing out a room for mingling and comfort potential. We could pull the armchairs up a bit, closer to the sofas. We’ll need some low coffee tables for the crafts and some higher ones for drinks and nibbles. Plus still leave floor space for small people to move about without tripping over handbags. The room will be inviting and functional – lots of kneeling space for the tots at the tables, lots of throws and cushions on the sofa to make the mums (and dad) at home while they create some special keepsakes.

  ‘Have you got an oil cloth or camping ground sheet, Nelle?’ I call through to the kitchen.

  Her face pops round the door. ‘She can’t have been that sick, surely?’

  ‘Don’t speak so soon. Actually, I was thinking of something to put down for the pottery painting. I think that paint would be a special kind of hell to get out of fabrics. And any kids’ tables kicking around?’

  She counts off on her fingers. ‘I got Darren to hose down the two tables from the garage – plastic numbers that I’m happy to get trashed. And then there’s one still in Amy’s room that she used to do her water beads on. But mention that to her these days and she’ll deny it forever. So uncool.’ She flicks a pretend lock of hair over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. ‘Do you think that’ll swing it?’ I hear a faint cry crackle through the baby monitor on Nelle’s hip, just as the doorbell goes.

  ‘I’ll get the boy if you get the door? Hopefully it’s Will and not some mega-keen early bird.’ I’ve yet to see Nelle in anything but high, bouncy spirits but today I can tell the stress is starting to worry at her can-do attitude. I’ve had days when I burst into tears in the middle of the street at how exhausted and lost I feel, and I have just the one baby and no real money troubles to fret over. Nelle is juggling three children, the emotional complications of working in a family business and the practical worries of that business not working. It definitely makes me realise how lucky I am in so many ways.

  Luckily, it is Will and the girls, who are already wearing painting aprons with funny little elasticated sleeves that cover their arms, like Victorian surgeons. ‘You can never be underprepared for craft time,’ he informs me seriously. ‘Right, what’s to be done?’

  We’ve got three mums coming, with one toddler each. Will recruited two through toddler groups he goes to, and Nelle found the other through a notice she put in the family’s cafe window. Nelle, Will and I have decided on a charm offensive over our warm-up teas – we’ll each all stick to one of the mums, chatting and crafting together, making sure they have a really good time and tell all their mates. Plus, we can sneak some under-the-radar market research out of them at the same time, to help inform how Nelle might price this for a proper party.

  There is a cold twist in my stomach as I think of having to talk to a stranger. OK, a big cold twist. But, I remind myself, it’s just one mum, and – much more importantly – it’s for Nelle. She’s a mate. Did she leave me sobbing in the loos at the Parent and Baby Fair? No. It would have been easier for her to do so, less weird most likely. But she stuck it out for me. And I’m determined to do the same for her today. Besides, if I feel myself clamming up, this time I’m going to think: What would I be typing about if it were the wee small hours and I was in my bedroom, post-feed? What would First-Time Mum say? All those Likes and comments have made me realise that we’re all up for the chance to spill the beans on our real child-rearing experiences, and not just the ones worthy of a spot in the family album. So if I can steer us onto a universal subject like ‘When Porridge Becomes Concrete’, we should bump along together just fine.

  Joe is happy in his sling, his tiny head bobbing gently in the direction of Nelle’s movements. ‘So this table, painting plates or little cups. This one, handprints in clay and, here, decoupage. Not that I’m still very clear on what that is,’ she says.

  ‘Middle-class cutting and sticking, basically.’ Will shrugs. ‘To make a trinket box thingy. They’ll love it!’

  ‘And you will give me that receipt for Hobbycraft so I can refund you, yes? I’ve only said it a million times.’

  He studies the ceiling.

  ‘Shall I make more tea?’ I offer, to change the subject.

  ‘Why not? This is a British household, so we should, by rights, have tea coming out of our ears by the end of the afternoon. Blimey, I hope everyone has a good time.’

  I sling my arm around Nelle’s shoulders. ‘With company like this and a jumbo supply of PVA glue, how can they not?’

  Half an hour later, and two of the mums had arrived. I went back to the kitchen to sort them out with drinks while Will got them settled, and Nelle got their toddlers stuck into something sticky and entertaining.

  Even without the clown make-up, Nelle can project this big, energetic personality that little ones can’t tear their eyes away from. ‘Who will pass me the biggest piece of paper, hmm? Will it be you, Charlotte, or you, Finn? Let’s see!’ I hear her saying jauntily, through the walls.

  When I carry the teas back through and put them safely out of the reach of small hands, I can see Will is already deep in conversation with his allotted mum. She has flawless black skin and can’t be more than thirty. She’s leaning on the arm of her armchair to listen to Will, sitting in the other.

  ‘… but aid agency work. Wow. I mean… that’s so noble of you. So brave!’

  She waves his praise away. ‘No, not at all, really. You should have seen how much we used to drink, how we partied once the day was over. I mean, there’s not really much else to do in some places – just seek out some home-brewed moonshine and hope it doesn’t take the enamel off your teeth!’

  Will catches my eye. ‘Hey, Stevie. This is Bernie. I was just asking her how she met her other half and she said while in the Sudan, sorting out clean water. Isn’t that… well, I think it’s incredible.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, absolutely!’ I enthuse. So maybe this isn’t going to be the mum that I get blabbing to about our favourite nappy-rash creams, or how quickly a talking Peppa Pig toy can drive you completely bonkers. She seems to have a fantastic, grounded sense of humour, but I just feel like a lowly whiner in comparison. Happy to let Will handle this.

  Nelle is now perched by the other mum and they’re both helping the two tots lay strips of tissue paper onto little cardboard boxes coated with big blobs of PVA.

  ‘Your tea is just up there.’ I point. ‘I’m Stevie, by the way.’

  ‘Louise,’ she says. ‘I would shake hands but I think we might get permanently attached!’ She holds up a hand almost glistening with glue.

  ‘I think that’s my cue to grab some more baby wipes!’ I reply, happy to have a task to keep me on the move. Clearly whoever the third mum is will be my craft buddy. You’ve got this, Stevie, I tell myself. It’s not like before. You’re in a nice house, Cherry isn�
��t yelling, you’re with friends. You can do this.

  I spend the next twenty minutes helping the twins and their extra buddies – Eloise and William – push their sweet little hands into flat discs of clay, before the doorbell goes again.

  The sight on the doorstep mutes my cheerleading internal voice instantly.

  It’s that bloody mum-mum. The one whose son nearly broke both my ankles, and the one whose mate ‘mistook’ me for Will’s cleaner. Oh deep, deep joy.

  But this is for Nelle, remember? So game face, Stevie. Game face.

  I pull a thin smile together and welcome her in. She has an immaculate little girl with her, probably two or so, her chocolate brown hair neatly plaited by her ears, a checked pinafore dress that looks like it’s been actually ironed. ‘Mills, shoes off,’ her mother says, in a perfect Sloane accent.

  The little girl obediently removes her shining Mary-Janes and places them next to her mum’s spotless wellies.

  Say something, Stevie. Break this Arctic ice!

  ’Gosh, I love those wellies. I’ve never seen a pattern like that before – are they Cath Kidston?’

  The mum-mum looks down at them, as if it was a totally bonkers thing to talk about. ‘No, they’re actually customised Hunters. One-offs. My husband knows I love bluebells so he got them hand-painted for me when we were in Cornwall at Easter. Thank you,’ she adds, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘I’m Stevie, by the way, nearly forgot that important part!’ I laugh a hollow little tinkle. ‘And are you Milly?’ I ask the little girl, who dips behind her mother’s legs.

  ‘Millicent, or Mills,’ the mum-mum quickly corrects me. ‘And I’m Chloe. Thanks for having us.’

  I slap my hands against my thighs in an odd, matronly kind of way that I instantly regret, before I turn towards the living room. ‘You’re so welcome! Come on through, everyone’s having a good old messy time, Mills, and there’s lots of space for you, too. Guys, this is Chloe and Mills.’