by Poppy Dolan
But, seriously, Ted?! You’re so worried about me that you take a sodding sleeping pill and you’re happy to disappear into another time zone again, to research a move that I just clearly lost my head over?! Does my voice count for anything any more?!
I munch through three digestives at the kitchen table. I do count. I can earn my own money, my own way. I will show him. By the time he boards the plane back home and steals me another paltry blanket as a consolation prize, I will have that sample with Francesca and I’ll have three more blogs out in the world. I’ll get some advertising going and I’ll SHOW HIM. Our life here can be really good – he can’t just expect me to give it up.
My fingers twitch to check my Facebook stats. This is the longest I’ve been away from the page since I started it and I’m clucking for a fix.
My heart rate slows as I see a reassuring number of Likes and Follows. I still have a voice that matters to these guys, then. Just the odd troll who I block instantly and satisfyingly.
There’s also a message from Nelle: ‘Can’t get those tuuuuunes out of my head from today! Darren and I have been dancing around the kitchen to a Spotify Nineties playlist. ParentFest is going to roooooock!’
I smile at the image, and because I really can picture in my head Nelle bouncing about to Blink 182 or Nirvana, her husband doing his best to keep up and not scatter the pile of school books on the edge of the counter. But how can I reply?
Woohoo! Well, my OH and I rowed like polecats in our kitchen tonight (or, to be more exact, I screeched at HIM) because he wants to move us to Asia and I would have to miss ParentFest. And never see you guys again. And be totally alone. Nighty night! Xxx
I’m not going to piss on Nelle’s chips.
As I let myself scroll aimlessly through my phone, killing time that I should be using for sleeping and knowing I’ll regret it in the morning, a familiar name catches my eye in my DMs: @BBootsMum.
@BBootsMum: Hey, how are things in the land of no sleep? I am now working my way through The Good Wife; one, because it’s SO GOOD but two, because I hope it will teach me some more backbone in standing up to my husband. He’s talking in really unsubtle terms about me going back to work sooner rather than later, now the kids are nearly all in primary school. But I’m not ready. Am I being a wuss?!
@First_Time_Mum: Hey, lovely! Agh, husbands. Spookily mine is also trying to push me into a big life change I don’t want. But we’re not Bugaboos! We can’t be smoothly pushed and parked up where we don’t want to be, right?!?!?! We need to tell them NO. We need to show them we can choose our own paths. Full disclosure: I am a bit drunk. It’s the first time in a looooong time and I’m not handling it well. But I do mean it – if we are capable of growing a whole human life with just the tiniest of input from our other halves, then we should be trusted to make our own important decisions. And, you know, we do so much on our own anyway. In one hundred years they’ll be extinct and we’ll all live in very tidy houses with perfectly matched cushions. Or something. I’m going on, aren’t I?! I’m going to hit the hay. But stay strong and do what feels right FOR YOU. You’re awesome xxxx
I plug my phone into the charger that’s permanently relegated to the kitchen and head to bed. Well, the sofa. I don’t want to have to creep into the bedroom all silent and tip-toeing, like I’m the one who did something wrong. And I’ll hear Cherry from down here. Then I’ll figure everything out tomorrow. On my own.
Chapter 14
By the time I’m awoken by my plump alarm clock, sunlight is streaming through the living room windows. Huh? My watch says 6.15 but that can’t be right. I don’t remember feeding her in the night. Sweet Jesus, did she sleep all that time?
I bolt up the stairs to fetch her before she gets really loud and settle on the bed to feed, crossing my fingers that enough time has passed for all that very fine local cider to have worked through my system. Cherry doesn’t seem to have a problem with what’s on offer and gets into her rhythm. On the bedside table I can see two used baby bottles. She didn’t sleep through, then: Ted fed her again. I can’t believe he heard her and I didn’t, when he was dosed up on sleeping tablets. Both guilt and a hangover are now rattling at my brain.
His side of the bed is almost made and his wardrobe door is hanging open, showing the empty shirt spaces. Oh, right. He’s gone again.
‘Well,’ I say down to Cherry’s sleep-sweaty head, ‘we’ve got a lot to do, Chezza, while Daddy is off playing Mega Businessman. Mummy’s got to write this book proposal – somehow – and we’ve got to help Nelle get ParentFest in full swing. So we can show him where home really is. And that Mummy is not just going to follow at his beck and call. You just fill your boots while Mum has a little blog.’
I awkwardly manage to lean over, Cherry still latched on, and grab my iPad from the side of the bed.
6.37am
CHOOSE YOUR OWN FAMILY
There’s something special about looking at a tiny baby and knowing it’s yours. That you’re going to love this kid for ever and wipe its nose and obsess over its teeth and help it sound out its first letters. It’s a deep, heady, drunk love that makes everything else blur into the background and wait its turn.
But that doesn’t feel any different if the baby isn’t biologically yours. If the baby is adopted, or a stepchild, or a niece or nephew, or grandchild. We choose to pour out that love in just the same way. Because we choose who we love; we choose our own families.
And the beauty of our modern world is that we can choose our own networks of Important People: friends, family, colleagues. We can choose to surround ourselves with people who lift us up, champion us, maybe they even obsess about our teeth. Some of those people may be linked to you by blood, some not. In my life, I’ve been lucky enough to have a great family and make amazing friends for life, but in the last few months it’s been brand-new friends who have really brought me back to myself. They’ve given me the jolt of electric courage I so sorely needed. They’ve reminded me of the magic, healing power of laughing at something stupid. They took me at face value and accepted the imperfect bits.
All hearts and flowers, yeah? Hmmm. Not quite. There’s one big relationship in my life not going so well. Where I think that person has totally lost sight of who I am or who we are as a family. They’ve stopped listening to me, they’ve stopped laughing with me. I’m not sure I recognise them any more.
So, what can you do when one of your ‘for ever’ relationships starts going seriously wobbly? Well, I’m thinking you don’t have to accept that that’s the way it will be, and lower your expectations. I deserve better than that. And just as we can choose who we make our family, we can choose who doesn’t quite make the grade. Who doesn’t get a say in where we’re going or how we get there. Sometimes things start off as ‘for ever’ but take a massive wrong turn. Do you blindly keep on down that path or do you risk it all on a U-ie?
Tell me, parent mates, have you ever changed the status of a ‘for ever’ relationship because it wasn’t working out? Did you regret it? Or did it set you free? I know I’ve gone all Oprah on you this morning but I’d really like to hear what you think.
Love,
First-Time Mum x
We spent the day quietly shaking off my hangover with lots of toast and carpet time, Cherry gumming at toast strips while I danced her jangling toys over her tum. I studiously ignored my phone altogether in case Ted sent something that churned me up all over again. Then we had a reasonably unbroken night (well, up just the twice but I can’t begrudge her anything after The Event at the Library Which We Will Never Speak of Again), and now I am ready to get stuck in. I’m ready for an entirely new, kick-ass day. I wrote for a few hours between the two feeds but it was so worth it – another thousand words in the can, another chapter taking shape. Francesca, baby, I’ll do you proud! Ted – you ain’t seen nothing yet. If, somehow, the stars align and I get to write a real, actual book, that will wipe the condescending, managerial smile off his face.
Nelle is cr
acking on with ParentFest plans, with Will and I as her very willing ‘parental consultants’. Her family business pretty much has all the basic resources sorted out, but we are there to lend an eye or an idea any way we can. Next on the list, rather crucially, is food. Our part of the shires isn’t trendy enough to get legitimate food vans just yet, but a half-hour drive towards London will take us to a very busy food market, which runs every first Thursday of the month behind a church in Borehamwood. We have the name of a few companies to specifically try out, ones who’d expressed some interest after a round of cold calls. And we are going well starved and hungry for ideas, ready to nibble on every dish going and chat up the owners if needs be. Knackered parents don’t just need good food, they bloody well deserve it. If you can’t get off your face on alcopops any more, the least you can do is be taken to a near food-coma with artisanal cheeses and Mexican street food. That’s just basic human rights.
Cherry does not enjoy the car ride, failing to either drop off or be cheered by my ‘Five Little Ducks’ routine but I just keep thinking: Dim sum. Fish tacos. Malaysian curry. The foods from the kinds of establishments that I could have tripped over in my lunch break back in my working days, but which have now been elevated to mythical status in my new hometown, where a Thai is still viewed as pretty racy. Going without breakfast was perhaps not my best plan, especially on so little sleep but, man, I don’t want anything to come between me and that fourth dish. And then churros for pudding…
As we park up by the church, good and early, my head spins slightly as I hook the pram out of the boot, unfold it and then start to withdraw Cherry from her seat. These are movements I could probably do with my eyes shut but even fully awake, I’m a bit slow and sluggish. Might be the day for a rare espresso…
‘Hola!’ I hear Will shout, a few rows of cars over. The twins are clipped into a double buggy and I find myself making a silent prayer of thanks that I wasn’t blessed with two at once: there’s no way my puny frame could take on that mutha of a pram and win, day in and day out. Will is definitely the man for the job. He rolls it over the bumpy grass without a flinch. ‘Nelle said she might be a bit late and that we should start on the falafels without her. But if we hit the chorizo stall before she gets there, she’ll disown us. She was quite serious about that.’ He scratches the back of his head. ‘Ready?’
‘I think I was born for this, Will. I seriously do.’
We tramp off towards food heaven.
* * *
‘So we’re saying falafels seven out of ten, paella a solid eight. Beef burrito a big “oh yes” ten. We’ll come back for the beer-battered fish and chips later if we have room. Feels a bit’ – Will drops his voice politely – ‘pedestrian to me for the festival, but I could be overruled.’
Olive and Esme giggle at the way their dad says ‘pedestrian’, as if by his delicate delivery they can tell it’s something a bit naughty. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone at nursery gets called a ‘pedestrian face’ one day soon. Mind you, could be worse. If Cherry has been fully absorbing my rants at home over the last two days – while I’ve been unloading the washing machine and cursing Ted for being a knobbing knobhead, for example – I’m going to have to start worrying about her first word. But I’m not thinking about Ted now. I’ve got great snacks and great chat; I’m sitting on a fluffy picnic rug and my espresso did exactly the job. This is a good day. A day I have chosen for myself. A parenting family I have helped put together. This is me.
The location could not be more parent-friendly and conducive to a chilling day. As chilled as you can be when at any moment you might have to clean up faeces. But even if the bar has been moved for true relaxation these days, this is hopping right over it. The shadow of the church is giving us just the right amount of shade from the midday sun so that no one has to fret about sunstroke in tiny tots, and the stretch of garden where the food trucks are parked in a big circle is actually fenced off with a big, black, wrought-iron fence, so there’s no need for holding toddlers by the hoods to stop them escaping at a leopard’s pace. Will and I are stretched out, side by side, surrounded by a happy array of empty cardboard boxes. From a distance, we look like the jammiest couple on Earth.
His phone beeps. ‘Oh, it’s Nelle. She’s here and by the brewery tent. Wants help loading a barrel into her car. Christ, hope her suspension can take it. Are you OK with the girls?’ Esme and Olive have been taking turns to slap down Peppa Pig Top Trump cards onto one big, sprawling pile. They look up at him with doe eyes and batting lashes, as if all they have on their minds is starring in a Fairy Liquid ad.
‘Sure. Go for it.’
As soon as Will’s long strides have taken him out of earshot, the twins turn to me in a synchronised move. I’m trying not to feel intimidated. But I have seen The Shining. ‘Can we do hair, Stevie?’ Olive asks boldly.
Oh god, they want to glue things to my scalp again. ‘Um, sorry, ladies. I haven’t brought my mermaid wig today. But’ – I think on my feet as Esme’s lip begins to tremble – ‘in my bag I have…’
My hand roots about in the bottom of the change bag, coming up against a furry cough drop and some pistachio shells. Classy, Steve, really classy. But in one of the million inside pockets I hit pay dirt: a super soft baby hair brush. Made of such unbelievably fine bristles that I doubt it can move even Cherry’s fuzz in any direction, let alone be able to cause obvious damage to my do.
‘You can brush Cherry’s hair – very gently – then you can do mine, if you like. That’s a different kind of playing hair.’
Esme looks to Olive and Olive nods. The game has been accepted.
I crouch behind the girls as they take quick turns running the brush down the sides of Cherry’s perfectly round head. Don’t want a wooden handle in the eye today, thanks very much. She gurgles happily and tries to twist around so the brush ends up in her pie hole, but Esme laughs. ‘Don’t eat it, baby!’
Olive is more of the disciplinarian of the two, a mini Robocop in turquoise dungarees. ‘Babies don’t eat brushes! You’ll go in the corner.’ She wags a tiny finger at my daughter and the seriousness of her action is, of course, hilarious. I cough to cover up my laughter.
‘My turn then,’ I sing-song.
The girls manoeuvre me so I’m sitting up straight, legs crossed, and they’re standing behind me. When a minor squabble breaks out over whose turn is and isn’t fair, I suggest they count five strokes each, then swap.
‘Yes, we CAN do counting,’ Esme replies happily, and this makes me instantly sure they can no more count to five than I could hold a plank position for the same stretch. But, on paper, it has the ring of ‘fair’ about it and that’s all that seems to matter to twins.
‘One, two, eight, five,’ Olive says confidently.
After a shuffle, Esme takes over. ‘A, B, C, D, E…’
This is actually not so bad. I’m not in physical pain. I won’t end up with PVA residue this time. Cherry is content. This is not so bad.
‘One, two, one, one… um, Esme?’
‘One.’
‘Oh, yes. One.’
It’s almost like being at a spa, I suppose. That was the last time I think anyone other than me has touched my hair, at a spa. Ted paid for me to have an All-Over Mum-to-Be massage in my first week of maternity leave and it was such heaven. Ending with a delicious scalp massage where I came out smelling of lavender and citrus, moisturised and zen and just sure that my baby would benefit from all this calm and come out in an easy, natural way. Must have been such strong lavender that I was tripping off my head. Hah.
Where’s that Ted gone? The one so thoughtful that he’d book and pay for me to totally indulge myself, when there was nothing whatsoever in it for him. Now he just wants to push his own agenda, his own career, with Cherry and me as the token family trophies. I want thoughtful Ted back. I want him to think about how much this move is sending me spinning out.
I want him to send me back to that spa as a sorry. That would be a great start.
I could get in the Jacuzzi this time – the beautician stopped me en route with a warning frown as it was ‘not advised for pregnant ladies’. As if I’d wanted to intentionally cook up the kicking thing in my stomach. I could get a facial. A manicure. Get my roots done and a lovely moisturising hair mask. Those ones that smell like… What do they smell like? It comes back to me suddenly. Avocado, maybe? Garlic?! No, that can’t be right. But I’m definitely thinking of garlic and maybe just a bit of coriander…
‘Stevie?!’
My eyes snap open and the avocado smell is suddenly right here, in the church garden, under my nose. And two wide-eyed toddlers stand before me, their fingers light green and dotted with chunks of tomato.
‘GIRLS!’ booms Will.
Nelle is next to him, both hands clamped over her mouth.
My fingers fly to my cheeks and hit something squishy. Please, no. But when I pull my fingertips back, I can see it’s not a Code Brown. It’s avocado.
Esme erupts into passionate sobs. ‘We was… doing… hair, so we did Daddy’s face… matt… too!’
At their feet are our two discarded burrito plates, with incriminating finger marks gouged into the leftover guacamole.
Will crouches down to their level, his face utterly calm. ‘It’s a face mask Daddy does. But did you ask Stevie if that was OK?’
‘She was asleep,’ Olive mutters, kicking the toe of her trainers through the patchy grass.
‘I wasn’t,’ I blurt out, as if I’m next for a bollocking. But I must have been. One minute I was dreaming of spas, the next I’ve been given an exclusive organic ‘dip’ treatment. ‘Or maybe I nodded off for just two seconds… but it doesn’t matter, Will, honestly. I expect it’s actually very moisturising. Nice, even. Once the smell of garlic fades.’
He purses his lips and looks between the three of us. ‘They’ve seen Adrian do a homemade avocado, oat and honey one when his sister comes to stay – that’s where they must have got the idea. Right: wet wipes, the lot of you. And a sorry, please, girls.’