Confessions of a First-Time Mum

by Poppy Dolan

  I’ve struggled with so much guilt over Big Baby’s sleep patterns – they are far from what the perfect parenting books say. She does not ‘drop off’ when awake-but-drowsy. She does not self-soothe. She has to be rocked, pram-pushed, jiggled and begged to sleep for the shortest times. I am her ‘crutch’, these books tell me. I am setting up bad patterns for life.

  For the first months of her life I thought her sleep patterns were all because of ME. Because I was failing, because I wasn’t trying hard enough, maybe even because there was something wrong with my maternal gene, deep down. It’s taken an agonisingly long time; it’s taken non-stop tears and middle-of-the-night panics; and finally it took the wise words of some crucial parenting friends in my life to make me see – this is just it. This is the parenting life, sometimes – messy, unpredictable and nothing like the books. It can be hard, but that doesn’t mean you are weak. It can make you loathe yourself, but that doesn’t mean you don’t TOTALLY love your kid(s). It can feel endless, but one day it will get better.

  But first, and say it with me: ‘Fuck perfect. We are good enough!’

  Solidarity,

  First-Time Mum x

  * I know, right?! TRIPPY.

  I’m actually slightly panting as I type the last few sentences. This introduction just seemed to pour out of me, like I was the medium for some clever, dead person’s thoughts. But damn it, I’ve typed them – they’re mine now. And instead of feeling exhausted after this mental blast, I actually feel totally revved up. Adrenaline feeding adrenaline. Cherry has hardly made a peep as the tubby little felt family roll about on the screen. We’re all on the up. Seems like tempting fate to stop now. If she cries, I’ll totally take a break, I promise myself.

  I start a new page under this first draft of the intro and type ‘Contents’. Maybe if I just freestyle some pertinent parenting topics, I will see a pattern emerging and will be able to pick the most appealing bits for this sample.

  Under ‘Contents’ I write ‘Funny. Raw. Honest. ALWAYS honest’ to make sure I don’t lose my thread of this first bit.

  And then it flows, as my fingers bash the keys:

  Sex after kids: er, come again? Or – more aptly – come at all?!

  Early risers: black-out blinds, Groclocks, white noise. Whatevs, mate, you’re pretty much stuffed. Invest in a Nespresso instead.

  Gender bullshit: watch out, they’re coming for it all – blue muslins for boys, pink pram covers for girls. Why we should all say stuff it and raise unicorn babies.

  The boob brigade: what you do with your tits is up to you and you alone. Flop ‘em out. Or don’t. It isn’t political, it’s personal. And formula is very good. Almost like they designed it to properly feed infants. (GASP!)

  ‘Are you sure it’s not twins?!’: the weird and wounding things people feel A-OK about blabbing at you when you’re pregnant, or just after having your baby. Top ten quick-fire responses, including: ‘Are you sure you’re allowed out on your own? Shall I call the ward?’

  What the HELL is that down there?: you thought the freaky rollercoaster of bodily changes ended after pregnancy? You were wrong. Piles. Tears. Blocked ducts. A chapter to leave open if your OH looks askance at being asked to do the dishwasher again.

  I’m just sinking a cool glass of wine post-bedtime when Ted walks in.

  ‘Rough day?’ he asks.

  I look at the inch of sauvignon blanc left in the glass and give it a swirl. Just this once, it’s actually a reward rather than a rescue. Just this once, it’s a celebration. But I don’t know how to explain that to him without delving into a whole heap of trouble. ’No, darling. Actually, it’s been a mega day because the secret blog I’ve been writing has really taken off and someone might want me to write a book. And pay me for it. Of course, the blog is all about our lives and my frustrations and Cherry’s ability to vomit over a four-metre radius, but don’t worry your sweet face about that. In fact, one of the longest posts was slagging you right off. Beer?’ Maybe not.

  I shrug noncommittally. The coward’s response. But the safe one. With the book ideas and ParentFest and all this social media attention, I can’t possibly find a decent space in my head to work out how I break this to Ted. But I will. When the sample is sent and I have one big thing ticked off my list, I’ll cook the best meal I can muster, maybe a nice Thai green curry, and we’ll get it all out in the open. Somehow.

  Ted holds up an M&S bag. ‘Got us one of those nice meals for two. With the apple pie my mum always says is such good value. I’ll bung it all in, you relax.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, love.’ I give him a quick peck and dash back to my laptop on the sofa. Relax? Pah! I could get a good start on the first chapter while he’s rotating dishes in the microwave.

  * * *

  ‘Earth. To. Stevie.’

  Ted is standing in the doorway, a tea towel over his shoulder and one hand scratching the back of his head.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve been calling you for five minutes. Where have you been?’

  Lost in my recounting of the baby blues – two months’ weeping on the sofa with a similarly weeping baby, a million boxes of tissues and the sinking feeling we should just have got a dog.

  ‘Still… uh, helping Sarah with this work thing.’

  ‘Well, your moussaka is going curly at the edges. Come on.’

  Ted pours me another glass of wine as I sit down, but I shake my head with a smile. I want to be sober enough to hit a decent word count between night feeds. His plate is already half-cleared so I start trowelling it down like a teenage boy at boarding school.

  ‘Hang on!’ He laughs. ‘I thought we’d have a bit of a catch-up, what with work being so mental recently. You haven’t told me what you and our girl have been up to this week.’

  If you only knew…

  ‘Mmmm,’ I say through a mouthful of lukewarm – but still very lovely – lamb mince and white sauce. ‘Promised Sarah I would get her something for the morning, though. Deadlines, pitches. You know.’

  He sticks his tongue in his cheek briefly and blinks. ‘OK.’

  ‘Actually, I might take this to finish off in the office as I go, if you don’t mind? As long as you weren’t planning on doing emails up there or anything?’ I have my plate in one hand, cutlery in another, and I’m raising my eyebrows hopefully.

  Ted lays his knife and fork down on the rim of his plate. ‘Nope. Wasn’t going to work at all tonight.’ He clears his throat.

  ‘Great! Thanks, love. This is delicious!’ I call as I launch myself up the stairs.

  * * *

  Ted called a soft goodnight at about ten and I knew my first night feed of the night wasn’t far off, so what was the point in stopping? Besides, I was deep into the Sex After Babies chapter and it took a lot of my mental powers to work out exactly when we might have last had sex. Was it a birthday? A bank holiday? I feel like there was a concrete reason why I took the plunge, filled with the fear of my delicate parts being ruined all over again after Cherry made her unsubtle way out. But I do know for sure that we’ve only done it twice in seven months. The first was so angsty and fumbly and painful (for me) that when I wimped out I could see the overwhelming relief in Ted’s eyes (well, I would have been able to see it if I’d allowed the lights on). The second technically counted as full sex but it wouldn’t make the Mills & Boon cut, put it that way. Hang on – three times if you count the one I made Ted do when I was ten days overdue and had heard a very unique male secretion could bring on labour. I don’t know if that counts as sex. I think, to Ted at least, it might count as cruel and unusual punishment.

  I’ve written nearly 2,000 words today, between Cherry’s tea and now. So if I bash away at it every day like this for a week and then allow myself a week of editing and revision, in a fortnight I should have something worthy of Francesca! I just can’t let up. I’m feeling the momentum. And sleep is for suckers.

  I sneak out another two paragraphs before the familiar whine begins and quic
kly builds up into a full-lung moan. Creeping into the bedroom and unhooking one side of my grey and bobbly feeding bra, I pick up Cherry, get myself comfortable as best I can against the evil headboard and she’s away, greedy little love.

  ‘Mummy’s just been building her literary career, Chicken,’ I whisper down at her. ‘And then tomorrow we can do the supermarket shop. And two days after that we’ll go singing at the library, shall we? With Nelle and Joe. Looks like you’ve got a mumpreneur, eh?’

  Cherry doesn’t flinch as her jaw moves rhythmically, hypnotically. I suppose my career choices don’t really affect her snack supply. But they sure as hell make me feel better.

  * * *

  I’m still busting with the potential of book ideas three days later, as I speed-walk Cherry in her pram to the library. Nelle is loitering outside the double doors for us.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’ she says, taking in my semi-sprint.

  ‘I was just making a few notes on my phone in the car park, lost track of time. Nearly forgot my parking ticket. Doh!’ I smack my palm against my head.

  ‘You OK?’ Nelle’s eyebrows slide down a touch.

  ‘Amazing!’ I trill, bouncing on the balls of my feet. ‘On a mission. Writing loads and I’m even sixty per cent sure it’s not crap. I might… I might send you a bit to read, you and Will. If that’s OK?’

  Her eyebrows shoot right back up to her hairline again. ‘Are you kidding? I’d bloody love that! And I have plenty of material, should you need any extras.’ She rubs her fingers gently over Joe’s impossibly tiny earlobe. ‘So, how much have you been able to write?’

  ‘About seven thousand words. The agent said ten, in total. So I’m cracking on.’

  ‘Seven thousand?!’ Nelle squeaks in alarm, as if I’ve just said that was how much I paid for my sagging blue leggings. ‘How the bejesus have you managed that in just a few days?’

  I shrug. ‘I can make notes once Cherry is asleep in the car, for about half an hour. And then I can get a good two hours in between night feeds.’ I chew the inside of my lip.

  ‘Stevie!’ Nelle almost growls in protest, as if I’ve just confessed to the last time these sad blue leggings were washed. ‘That’s not good, hun. When are you actually sleeping?’

  ‘When I need to. It’s fine. I’m fine. And hey, might as well capitalise on having broken nights, right?’

  She doesn’t reply for a beat. ‘Let’s work something out for tomorrow where Will and I take the Cherry pie and you have an hour to yourself to write. And consider yourself excused from ParentFest duties while you’re spinning all these plates. But in exchange, NO burning the candle tonight, capisce?’

  I nod obediently. I mean, she won’t know if I work in another quick blast… ‘Come on, nursery rhyme chanting calls. Maybe this is the week it truly turns into a cult and we have to sign away all our earthy possessions?’ I beam out a smile, mostly fuelled by coffee and nervous energy.

  Nelle is suitably distracted from her chiding. ‘They wouldn’t want what I’ve got, believe me. And you’d better join in with my version of “Five Little Monkeys” if it comes up.’ She pokes me playfully on the shoulder. Nelle has slightly rewritten this old and bonkers song in her head so that instead of mummy monkey calling the doctor, we sing loudly over everyone else, ‘Mummy WAS A DOCTOR, and so SHE said’ because, as Nelle puts it: ‘If this chimp lady has the guts to have five kids, I bet she’s got it in her to tell them herself to sodding well stop ruining her mattresses or they can bloody well drive themselves to A&E with a head wound.’ Not a line of reasoning I find fault with, myself.

  We shuffle into the library and join the ramshackle circle of mums and babies forming on the brightly coloured, partially stained carpet. Before meeting Nelle this was one of THE scariest places to bring Cherry, for fear of a very loud meltdown. Screeches and screams bouncing around a bustling coffee shop is bad enough, but being the only noise within an otherwise perfectly serene library? No thanks. It’s like walking through an exam hall with a police siren strapped to your front.

  Now that I know I have an ally to deflect some of the shame and self-consciousness, I’m at least readier to give these sessions a shot. If I have to make a mad dash for it, so what? I can try again next week. And I have someone to at least laugh it off with. And should Nelle experience a poo-slosion with Joe that leaks through his clothes and the sling and onto her cardigan, I’m here for her too; holding the soiled items with one finger as she removes them in the disabled loos. That is what mum mates are for. Knowing I have two real parenting friends (and quite a few faceless ones online, now I think of it) puts that bit more steel into my resolve. I’m far from thinking that my days of burning cheeks and escaping bodily fluids are behind me, but now I know it’s not really the worst that can happen. Plus I really am not alone in how I feel. That makes all the difference.

  I’m feeling so at home on the carpet, surrounded by the low carts of well-creased picture books, that I barely react as I spot Chloe and her polished pals swaggering through the door with their NASA-designed prams. The first few times I bumped into her, her sky-high bar of parenting had made me feel so lowly, like I could limbo under a gate. But now I just think: Good for her. You do you. And I will do me. That’s the sum of it.

  Cherry is plonked down in front of me, facing the rest of the group to be in her ultimate nosey position, and Joe is lying just in front of Nelle, safely out of Cherry’s grasp. The sweet lady that leads the singing is still fussing over a sheet of stickers at the library desk, so Nelle and I break into whispers.

  ‘What have you been writing about then? So far?’

  ‘Um,’ I mutter out of the side of my mouth, ‘well, one of the first chapters I’ve completed is about… sex.’ My eyes go wide in mock-horror.

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard of that,’ Nelle replies in low tones. ‘That’s the thing young people do instead of watching Corrie, right?’

  I laugh silently into the heel of my hand. ‘Sounds like you can skip over that chapter, Nelle.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Ha! As if. Hand over your phone, let me take a look.’

  I oblige. ‘Press that pen app, it’s in there. Synchs up from my laptop.’

  ‘Fancy.’

  The singing lady takes her seat on the little red stool at the front of us all. ‘Hello, happy faces!’ she begins, and Cherry’s head whips round in her direction. I have this feeling she is going to be a total teacher-worshipping nerd at school, if her devotion to the health visitors and the library lady is anything to go by. As if to prove my thesis, she starts rocking back and forth on her fat thighs, trying to propel herself further towards this authority figure, however tenuous.

  ‘Shall we start with “Wheels on the Bus” today?’ the lady asks, and Nelle cackles just beside me. Quite a few of the mums look over at us in confusion and I smile apologetically. I think Nelle may have just read the bit about covering any bedroom mirrors with the nearest thick dressing gown. Because no one needs a reflected recap of their nethers if they’re braving sex again, let alone having to look at your engorged boobs if you can bare to have them set free from their bra-hammock. Mine are covered in these horrendous dark, thick veins that look like the scary Underneath monster from Stranger Things. Which I have admitted in the chapter.

  Nelle is gently vibrating with swallowed giggles right now, hiding my phone by her crossed legs but keeping her eyes glued to the screen. Despite the fact that I feel bad that this is somewhat throwing the singing lady off her jolly tunes, and also embarrassment that Chloe and her gang are throwing narrowed glances our way, I can’t help but feel a glow of pride. Nelle likes it! It’s ringing true! Maybe Francesca will like it, too; hopefully she’ll have the odd laugh. Maybe her editor chum will race through it and make her a stonking offer over the next lunch and I can be a lady author and never have to worry about office life ever again and…

  I need to calm down. I tune back into the lyrics for ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’, focusing on keeping up with the extr
a verses (which until I had Cherry I had no idea existed. To be honest, they’re a bit thin and it’s not only the mouse saying ‘No more!’ by the time you get to the fourth one). Don’t run away with yourself, Stevie. You need to get the words down, do a hell of a lot of editing and then cross everything that is still flexible enough to cross over. Nelle is bound to be kind about it – she’s a mate, and she’s super-lovely.

  Clearing her throat and wiping a tiny tear away from under one eye, Nelle slips the phone back to me. ‘Dynamite, Stevie. Dynamite.’ I squeeze her hand briefly before she pulls it away and gets stuck into winding the bobbin up.

  Feeling like the naughty girls that have just thrown spitballs all the way through year nine History, we’re in no rush to be the first through the doors once the singing has ended. I hand Cherry a touchable board book on ducklings that she immediately starts licking. Oh, well, maybe you can absorb literacy that way. Nelle has wrapped Joe back up in his trusty sling and is looking at the DVDs by the entrance, which I think must be the library’s version of that trick when supermarkets pump fresh bread smell at you as you walk in. Hook you with something a bit tempting and naughty before you are swamped with periodicals or fresh cabbages and blindly shove them in your trolley.

  A loud duck quacking alert makes her fish her mobile out of her handbag. She rolls her eyes at me. ‘Preteens. I suppose I’m lucky they don’t set the language to Mandarin, or something.’ She looks down at the new message. ‘Ooooh! Hey, are you up to much this afternoon?’

  ‘Just the usual bikini waxing, and I can always cancel my Italian lover,’ I drawl. The tiny, hunched male librarian by Street Maps and Atlases gives me a filthy look. I return it with a hard stare. I’m having fun, mate, give me a break. Just a month ago this kind of an exchange would have me twisted with anxiety for weeks after, berating myself for having done the wrong thing yet again.