Confessions of a First-Time Mum

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘Are you sure that’s not just the sugar high talking?’

  Nelle uses her cake fork to poke me in the arm.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Take a sodding compliment, Stewart. Or I will call you Stewart until my dying day. I will have it chiselled into my gravestone, in fact. “Excellent person. Beloved wife and mother. Dearest friend of Stewart.” You need to give yourself credit. We’re all grafting on this but you gave it life, OK? Suck it up – you did good, kid.’

  I shovel more of the perfectly dense, slightly spiced cake into my mouth so I don’t have to actually reply.

  Nelle rattles out more of the prospective plans, sticking a finger out for each one. ‘Our mate at The Jolly Good is going to give us the names of really good local guitar bands – ones that don’t mind playing faithful covers of late nineties Britpop. The circus performers will be under strict instructions to stay in the kids’ area and not spook any of the grown-ups’ – she shoots me a meaningful look – ‘um, and we’re going to source one of those HUGE paella dishes, bigger than a duck pond, for a massive paella stand. Chef is totally excited about trying one of those. We’ve got your excellent press release, of course, and we’re taking out some local paper ads and even some digital ones. To be honest, seeing the way your blog has blossomed has made me twig that our punters are more likely to react to something like this if it jumps out at them on their scrolling time and they can click through and buy tickets in a flash.’

  I clear my throat. ‘I could… I mean, First-Time Mum could mention it, nearer the time? I’d have to say that I got sent some comp tickets, so that it seems like a standard blogger product review thing, rather than revealing me as your mate. But if you think it might help—?’

  ‘That would be brilliant!’ Nelle beams. ‘But only if you’re sure? And you’re really happy to?’

  ‘Sure as sure can be. I want this thing to work, just as much as you guys. I need all the proof I can get that my brain still has functional parts.’ Nelle rolls her eyes. ‘But I need to be super careful. Ted nearly busted me, right in the middle of writing a blog last night. Not that he cared much after I said it was a work thing I was helping out with.’

  Nelle carefully scoops the foam from around the rim of her cup with a teaspoon. ‘So, he’s never going to know? About the blog? I mean, you did say you were going to come clean with him about how you’ve felt in the mum life.’

  I look over at Cherry, still snoozing, a bubble of snot inflating then deflating with weirdly hypnotic beauty from her left nostril. ‘Well, some of that I feel better about these days. Like, talking to humans; that doesn’t make me want to tear my skin off quite so much. And I can’t be so completely boring if people like my posts. Even the ones that hate them – at least it proves I’m not totally irrelevant.’ I pick at a thumbnail. ‘Sometimes I don’t even know where to start with Ted. We get these two-hour slots at night to be together. And if he’s not emailing or watching phone clips of rugby injuries, we’re just swapping domestic info. It’s all… transactional. “Did you get any dishwasher tablets on the way home? Did your parents confirm that date in September for us to go up? Is it time to move Cherry into her own room?”’

  Nelle nods as I talk. ‘I know what you mean. A lot of being married with kids is making sure the diary works and there are fish fingers in the freezer. But you’re still in the new baby phase. Things even out. You find your rhythm again. It gets fun, honest! Like, when you both step back and look at the ridiculousness of it all and you can’t help but laugh. I remember our eldest, Evan, being so cross with us as a toddler because we bought him the wrong Ninja Turtle for Christmas. If I ever want to get a smile out of Darren, I just whinge ‘Raphaeeeeeeeel!’ and we’re in stitches.’

  ‘We did laugh after the poo in the pit,’ I say.

  She shudders a little at the mention. ‘There you go.’

  ‘But that’s the first time I can remember us properly laughing in… oh, months, most likely. Ted’s not usually there to share the really ridiculous bits. Fair enough, he’s working hard to support us. I try and remind myself of that every day. He’s knackering himself out flying off to Vienna or Cologne or he’s at his desk upstairs, slamming the keyboard keys stupidly loudly and waking the baby. I don’t find those moments all that charming, I must admit. And, besides, I never want to say when something is super-gross or annoying or boring, in case he looks at me like a monster for resenting any part of Cherry’s existence.’

  Nelle glances at me over the rim of her cup as she drinks. ‘I think you’re actually crediting him with far more emotional intelligence than the average man possesses. He would never think that! He knows you too well.’

  The cake is all gone now. I could have polished off three slices. ‘Maybe. And maybe it’s more like I haven’t known “me” for a while. But maybe he won’t enjoy First-Time-Mum me now, if he came across the blog somehow. She pulls no punches.’

  Shaking crumbs from her lap, Nelle nods. ‘And that’s exactly why we love her.’

  * * *

  Nelle’s in the back, chatting to some of the cafe staff about earning overtime by working at ParentFest, and I am poring through messages, tweets and emails. Who knew that all of a sudden not being cripplingly lonely could be just as overwhelming? I think I’m going to have to limit myself to five replies a day and hope that keeps me mentally balanced. Otherwise I think I will drain myself of verbal energy.

  One message from the early hours of this morning instantly catches my eye:

  @BBootsMum: Hey MM, how are things? I have banished the iron and am now obsessed with Gilmore Girls for my 4am insomnia. Have you seen it?

  @First_Time_Mum: Love that show! Got me through my so-pregnant-I-can’t-leave-the-sofa weeks. One day soon let’s have a big Jess/Dean/Logan debate. Glad to hear you’re finding the bright side of shitty sleep. You’re an inspiration!

  I think I’m going to need folders to organise all these messages, so I start tapping like mad to set them up, suddenly aware that Cherry’s 45-minute maximum nap time is about to be reached. She’s due to wake up any minute and I want to be ready for her, to give her my undivided attention. But I’m interrupted by new WhatsApp messages dropping down from the top of my screen, getting in my way.

  Ted: Are you in tonight? Maybe I’ll pick up dinner and we can catch up properly.

  A faint smile crosses my lips at the thought of one major job off my list today (our store cupboards are down to Cup-a-Soups and tinned salmon), plus a real chance to talk, and then I’m back into my folder frenzy. Shove these messages in there, flag these with a star, not sure about that, come back to…

  Out of the corner of my eye, it feels like someone is heading my way. A very blonde someone.

  I look up and my eyes lock on Chloe’s, but then a second later she steps back, looks determinedly away, a hand to her lips in concentration, her beautifully painted lilac nails drumming against her lip as she studies the cafe blackboard. Nope, not after me. Probably a soya latte. So I go back to my organising.

  Jeez, Stevie. Not everyone is interested in you these days. Big head, much? Clearly a mum-mum has no interest in you – you look like the classic lazy mother ignoring her kid for another game of Candy Crush. Not that that’s totally wrong. Right, now file this—

  My breath catches as I scan the first line of an email

  Re: Have you ever thought about writing a book?

  It must be spam. It must be a Nepalese government official offering me a unique investment in a… printing press—? Or it’s an autocorrect fail for ‘writhing about’ and I’m about to get loads of weirdo porn filling my screen.

  But I should just check.

  Dear First-Time Mum,

  I love your posts! Totally could have been me, eight years ago now (my son wouldn’t let anyone but me push his pushchair and used to hide his head under my top when he was shy. This went on until he was five!).

  I’ll cut to the chase. I’m a literary agent and I’ve worked with a few
social media talents to help them turn their brands into books. You might well have already had approaches and might be meeting with other agents, but I’d love to beg a meeting with you, if I may?

  I had lunch with a really good friend of mine who’s a big non-fiction editor at Random House and we both brought you up at the same time! She’d be really keen to see any sample material you might be able to write. Based on your blogs, I think it could be an absolutely hysterical guide to parenting. REAL parenting, mind you! The ‘Coco Pops as a bribe’ kind.

  If you’d like to meet, let me know when and where suits you.

  Best wishes,

  Francesca Blair

  I let out a yelp that doesn’t sound like my actual voice. And when it continues, and gets louder, I realise it isn’t mine – it’s the Cherry Post-Nap Grumps. For a minute I am genuinely torn between reading this amazing email again and scooping her up for a jiggle and a cuddle. If she’ll put up with one. But my girl needs me, and she always comes first.

  I hold Cherry at my front, facing out – her favourite position for a distracting nose about at other people. But it’s not working – her cries are now shrill and almost constant. Joe wriggles in his pram and starts to mew along.

  ‘Nelle!’ I sing-song call. ‘The kraken has awoken and so has your Joe, sorry!’

  Chloe is clutching a cardboard cup and inching closer to my table. Her face has flushed red and she’s eyeing up the chair I’ve just vacated. One of the random skills that having a tricky baby has installed in me is being able to instantly read the body language for ‘Your kid is ruining it for the rest of us: can you just not get to fuck?’

  Fine. Message received.

  Chloe’s delicate lips part, but before she says pointedly, ‘Are you leaving?’ or whatever, I roll my eyes and blurt out, ‘Yes, the table’s yours. We’re going.’ I start clumsily three-point-turning the pram with Cherry still bawling in my arms. Nelle appears in the kitchen doorway and I mouth, ‘Off home. I’ll text you later’ in an needlessly over-exaggerated way – she could probably have heard me if I’d just said it normally.

  The bright June sunlight seems to stun Cherry into silence so I take advantage of her shock and clip her back into the pram pronto, speed-walking in the direction of home. Caffeine, sugar, book deals, screamfests – the adrenaline is knocking about in me like martini ingredients in a cocktail shaker: potent, intense, ice cold.

  A book? Could I write a whole book?!

  I mean, I wouldn’t know where to start. But then, six months ago I didn’t know how to write a blog, either. Maybe I could take my posts as a jumping-off point and expand on them. There is always more to say on the topic of the best ways to clean up a car-based vomit session when you only have a scarf, three dried-up wet wipes and a copy of Elle with you. And I’m sure this agent would steer me in the right direction if I’m going totally off the boil.

  A real literary agent. Blimey. She must think there’s some money in it, then, or she’d hardly be wasting her time or her publisher mate’s time. Money. Like, career-building money. I could pay someone to pimp up my blog. I could take some evening classes in digital marketing, maybe. Get a flash laptop.

  But how would I explain the money to Ted? A small drug-dealing operation, maybe. Or that I’d sold my left kidney. Either would probably seem more plausible to him than, ‘Someone thinks I’m smart and entertaining enough to write an entire book’ coming from the wife who drones on about Cherry being two sizes ahead in nappies than another six month old at the weigh-in, and thinks she’s made an effort by brushing the egg off her sweatshirt and taking her ponytail out.

  Maybe this is the moment to tell Ted; maybe this is when I come clean? But what if he really disapproved? What if he didn’t want our lives examined in print, even anonymously? Obviously I would never choose a book deal over my family, but this good feeling I’ve been building through the blog, this confidence – so much more like the old me – it’s too fragile to risk someone else’s disapproval right now.

  I can’t deny that the thought of bringing in some real money again – not the piddling statutory maternity pay which just about covers my biscuit expenses – fills my skeleton with something like molten iron. I’ll be a provider again. I can buy a new top without two weeks of guilt.

  I get us home, for once not noticing the steep incline of the way back as my mind rattles through chapters – maybe little illustrations, and a list of all the shit NOT to buy. Baby bath? Pah. By the time I got myself together enough to give Cherry so much as a once a week bath, she was too big for the damn thing. And now it acts as an awkward laundry basket. Whose contents never get sorted or put away.

  Before I give my anxieties enough time to find 3,000 reasons why trying this would lead to certain DOOM for all of us, I reply to Francesca.

  Hello!

  God, I’m so flattered and YES I would love to try my hand at a book. Meeting right now is tricky (baby juggling, plus the whole anonymous thing) but how about I get you a sample and we could take it from there. How many chapters would you need to see?

  Nervous and excited,

  First-Time Mum x

  The voice of anxiety is just starting to warm up minutes later – Way to sound professional, Stevie, you might as well have asked her to be your new BFF and come round and braid your hair in front of Dawson’s Creek. You really are just winging it, aren’t you? – when Francesca sends back a quick response.

  Excellent! I’m leaving the office now but I would say 10,000 words would be a really good sample – something I could interest publishers with. And if this is all new to you, just try and keep one core message at the heart of it. To bring the whole book together. What I took from your posts was a rallying cry against the ‘perfect parenthood’ that gets shoved down our throats, but you need to find the message that rings true to you.

  Plus, I would really rather we meet before I officially offer you representation. We need to see if we’d click, for both our sakes! Maybe if we’re both happy with the sample when you send it in, we could chat on the phone and take it from there? And let me know if you do decide to go with another agent, as a courtesy, thanks. But I do hope you’ll pick me!

  F x

  With my heart pounding my ribs, I send back:

  Thanks for this. Not talking to any other agents and won’t until you’ve had a chance to see what I’ve written. Thanks for reaching out. It means so much!

  FTMx

  Oh, come on, Stevie! Are you going for your hostess badge at the Brownies?! I mean, you sound like a silly, litt—

  Shut up. I’m doing this. First-Time Mum is going to try and get into print!

  Chapter 12

  There were all sorts of things I swore I’d never do as a parent. Lose my temper at my kids. Give them anything less than sugar-free, salt-free homemade snacks. Use the TV as a babysitter. That’s when I had parenting down to a T: the parenting of my fictional, future children, that is. I wonder who got those imagined kids of mine? The ones taking care of their organic cotton T-shirts and thoughtfully munching on raw red pepper while I read the new Kate Atkinson in a separate room. I wouldn’t swap Cherry for the world. Maybe a solitary weekend, but not full time, anyway.

  She’s not perfect and that makes two of us. Peas in a pod. I have broken one of my own cardinal sins of pre-parenthood and have propped her up on the sofa, with the change bag on one side and my balled-up raincoat on the other, to be entertained by the Twirlywoos. So that I can type like a madwoman. While the adrenaline is working to my advantage, I might as well harness this pumped-up level of unnatural energy and get some ideas down. Like Francesca said, I need to find my own message to join everything up. And she was not far wrong when she mentioned the myth of perfect. But I need to put it in my voice.

  WHAT THE F*CK IS PERFECT, ANYWAY?

  I’m First-Time Mum. You might have heard of me if you are awake between the hours of 1am and 5.30am without any alcohol, amphetamines or serious jet lag in your system. That is to sa
y: if you are a parent. This is me writing a book.*

  It’s a book about parenting. But it is not a parenting book. It is not me telling you what to do. Because I’ll be fucked if I know what to do when it’s my kid, let alone yours. And I spend all day with mine and she’s still more mysterious than a Sphinx (only with neck folds), so I would never tell you what to do with your kid(s), seeing as I have never met them, let alone counted the layers of their under-chin fat.

  But this is a book about the parenting I have experienced and the small ways in which I have been trying (not always succeeding) to get through it sane and sober(-ish). It’s meant to distract you, reassure you and possibly give you a small laugh. And it’s going to remind you, hopefully on every page: you are good enough.

  If you’re anything like me and someone tries to compliment you on doing a good job with your kid, you probably quickly thank them and change the subject. But really, you don’t believe a single word of it. Because how can you be doing a great job when your life is nothing like those Instagram shots, those Baby Björn photos, those amazing mum-mums who bounce down the road with a troop of immaculately dressed children following in her suede-heeled footsteps? You don’t measure up to them. And they are perfect. So therefore you are crap.

  Well, I am here to throw a pooey nappy in the face of ‘perfect’. It’s a myth. It’s a lie. It’s as real and obtainable as ‘me time’. Parents, all we have to be is good enough. You don’t need to have a Walton’s-esque day in the park with your family, blowing dandelion clocks and linking arms as you skip through a meadow. If you’ve made it to the swings and someone comes home with a grazed elbow? Good enough. You got out of the house and there was no A&E trip – achievement. Your children don’t need to be raised on hummus and quinoa alone and blink in confusion at the sight of an Oreo. If one vaguely colourful piece of vegetation is sneaked into their system on a daily basis, you’re winning. If it’s followed by a few Jammy Dodgers in front of Pointless, you still won today.