Confessions of a First-Time Mum

by Poppy Dolan

  And sadly, to that, Will had no reassuring platitudes.

  * * *

  So much coffee in the following hours was probably not my greatest idea: I am jangling with caffeine and nerves and ‘What ifs?’ as we sit around his house and the responses come in.

  I couldn’t ignore my phone after the first hour – it vibrated against the old raisins in the Tupperware, sending out an angry rhythmic growl, calling at my soul like the Tell-Tale Heart.

  Grrrr-grrrr. Here are your dirty secrets, it seemed to grumble. Grrr-grrr. Come back to bite you in the arse.

  There was the message from Sarah, the email from my mum, a handful of uni friends I hadn’t seen in years reaching out with ‘U OK, hon?’ My paranoid brain now had visions of them fishing for dramatic details they could flog to those two dicks on my doorstep.

  Will is pretending not to be checking his own phone as he gets more and more Google alerts but I catch sight of his head dipped when he thinks I’m not looking. ‘The good news,’ he says carefully, over coffee number five now, ‘is that a lot of First-Time Mum followers are behind you. Fighting your corner, in fact. Gin and Sippy Cups reposted as soon as she saw the article, with the heading: ‘Why do they always come for the mums?’ And everyone is re-sharing and giving you fistbumps. They know you weren’t trying to tear down the convention of marriage; you were just saying what we all think in the black of night sometimes.’

  His kind words can’t break through the thick skin of self-loathing that has come to the surface in the last hours.

  ‘Pssft.’ I let out a long breath, looking around the room. ‘I bet you’ve never thought that. You are nowhere near the mess I am.’

  ‘Ha! Seriously?! I also stepped away from a job that I – too late – realised defined a lot of who I was. I’m used to being the parent everyone looks at, even when they’re trying their best not to stare. Pretty much everyday I wonder whether I’m messing it up, messing the girls up, whether I’m still the man my husband fell in love with – while I’m scraping crusty cereal off bowls or inventing new ways to hide broccoli in toddler food. So… I’ve got a pretty good idea.’

  ‘But you’re so… so handsome!’ I blurt. ‘And your shirts are always pressed and your house is just… delicious!’

  He counts off on his fingers, ‘One: cleansing and toning. Two: laundry service. Changed my life. Three: Farrow and Ball. Literally no indication that I’m not just a hot mess underneath it all. Most of us are, if we’re really honest. And you were being honest. It’s just a kind of voice that some areas of the media don’t want to hear, so they’re going to try and make you look like a loony. Er, which, you’re not. And you didn’t look that way. Actually, when you look at it again, not at all. I wonder what’s keeping Nelle?’

  Nelle had been messaging at a rate of knots from home, only kept away by my insistence that passing on Cherry’s sicky germs to Joe, and then possibly her others too, would only be the turd on top of my total shit-cake of a day. But she said the minute Darren came home, she would pass the parcel of the kids to him and be round to escort me back to mine, like my own personal mum security guard. That timing would suit Will’s deadline to go and pick the girls up from Montessori.

  But I was still bricking going home. What if those douche bags were still there? What if, like the amoebas they were, they had exponentially multiplied in the Petri dish of my drive?! My ‘friendly’ neighbours might be feeding them tea, sandwiches and more tasty fictions.

  A knock at the door revealed what exactly had kept Nelle: she was standing there, a devious grin in place. And a step ladder at her shoulder.

  ‘Chin up, kid. I have a plan. All thanks to my ill-spent youth.’

  * * *

  My knees jiggle up and down in the passenger seat as Nelle drives us home.

  ‘Honestly,’ she repeats for the third time, ‘I know it will work. I mean, I’m still open to just running them down in my car to clear the path. I could even throw on my clown suit beforehand, to really scare the crap out of them once and for all. But if you’re sure you don’t want to dabble in a little GBH…’

  I wave my hands. ‘Let’s just try and save the scraps of my reputation, if we can. Whatever is left of it. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the fu—fiddle de dees. But all I really want is to get home, pull all the black-out blinds down, cuddle my girl and make her better, and not leave again until it’s time to collect my pension at the Post Office.’

  Nelle briefly takes her hand from the wheel to squeeze my knee. ‘Don’t be silly. By then Cherry will be old enough to claim it for you!’ She winks and I feel a little warmth return to my skin.

  But all Will’s reassurances and Nelle’s kind joking can’t change the fact that my mug – my real face combined with my real name – is all over the internet. And they definitely have that in Hong Kong.

  Instead of heading down our road, Nelle takes the turning just before, onto the street that runs parallel to ours.

  ‘What exactly did you do with the apples you used to steal, then? Scrumping, I want to say?’

  Nelle bites her lip and looks sheepish. ‘We used to fill carrier bags with them, then leg it to the park on a dark summer’s night and have a massive Apple War. I don’t actually think the old boy who owned the garden would have minded if we’d just knocked on the door instead and asked to pick up the fallen apples. But climbing over the fence and trying not to wet ourselves with laughter was all kind of part of it. We thought we were badasses.’

  ‘Badasses who battled with bruised fruit?’

  ‘Hey!’ She laughs. ‘A cooking apple thrown over-arm blummin’ well hurts, if it catches you in the wrong place. Those Apple Wars made a woman out of me.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, should the Daily Britain come back for round two. I’ve got some mouldy satsumas in the fruit bowl that aren’t hard, but they would explode in a big squishy disaster, if I got some speed behind them out of the bathroom window.’

  Nelle indicates and pulls over. ‘Here we are. The apple orchard is now those three new houses up there.’ She points further up the road. ‘And this is the bottom of your place. I can’t believe I am old enough to legitimately say, “I remember when this was all trees”.’ She shakes her head and sighs. ‘But we’re both still young enough for a little sneaky skulduggery.’

  And that is how I fittingly end the day: with Nelle holding a stepladder with one hand and shoving me over the top of my garden fence, her other hand on my bum for the last push.

  * * *

  For the rest of the evening, I studiously ignore the rooms at the front of the house, just in case. Cherry and I have the most basic tea of scrambled eggs, with the lights off, and it’s a huge relief that she will at least take a few mouthfuls and sip at some water. Her skin colour has now moved on from putty grey to a watery pink and I can see some of that characteristic Cherry brightness in her eyes returning too. I couldn’t be more relieved. Let them crucify me, the red tops, I don’t care, my baby is better. She’s even more like herself at bedtime, only going down after her usual palaver of shushing and singing and jiggling. But for once I don’t feel the tedium; it’s like my head has floated off to somewhere else. It’s been a surreal few days, to say the least. Eventually, I’m left in a dark house with just my laptop for company.

  Before I dare go through my inbox, I send out an email that is the last thing I ever wanted to have to type but what I should have said in person, long long ago. I can’t know for sure that Ted has seen the piece but with our names both in it and him being a full-on phone addict, it seems likely. And if my mum’s seen it on Facebook already that feels like the ultimate litmus test of gossip wildfire.

  To: ted.cameron@syncedsolutions.co.uk

  From: Stevie

  Subject: …

  Ted, I’m so sorry. I should have told you all about it but it was just this little thing I did in the dead of night. I never thought anyone would read it, let alone care.

  But it snowballed, and as it did I got m
ore and more scared to come clean to you.

  The articles have taken it all out of context – I don’t want to be on my own, it’s just that sometimes I feel lonely as a mum. Really lonely. I have never said that to you before. But that’s how I feel, a lot of the time.

  God, I hope this doesn’t get you in hot water at work. And I hope it doesn’t embarrass you or your family.

  Pretty much screwed things up, haven’t I?

  Let me know when you can talk. I can explain everything, honest. It’s not the way it seems.

  S x

  PS Cherry’s had a vomming bug but she’s pulled through now. It was pretty scary for a while – I missed you.

  With that sent and the blood roaring through my ears, I face the dreaded inbox. I could have tried calling Ted upfront, I know, but it’s 3am over there right now and that’s my convenient excuse for making a softly, softly first approach.

  A real shocker is the top of the list.

  From: Jeremy@XpressPR

  To: Stevie

  Subject: Catch up?

  Hi Stevie,

  I’d like to firstly say that I’m aware it’s outside the usual guidelines for your HR office to contact you before the ninth month of your maternity leave, but I want to make it clear that this is in no way related to your return to work.

  We just feel with today’s media interest in you that you may want to talk, and we could offer some advice on handling your public image in our line of work, of course.

  If you’d like to come in, or just book a call, please let me know at your earliest convenience.

  Best wishes,

  Jeremy

  HR Executive

  A prickle works its way down the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. Work want me to come in. They want to ‘advise’ me on how to handle this situation. My professional brain may be withered and shrunken from my time on maternity leave, but I still recognise the PR polite code for: ‘Jesus, this is all super-embarrassing. Let’s put a lid on it for you NOW, shall we? Before you do something else stupid, like come out of your house in full-on PJs and drop a C bomb to a hungry journo.’

  The part of me that was bricking it about going back to work is suddenly gobbled up by the part of me that absolutely doesn’t want to get fired. If I leave, I want it to be my choice, for our overall family-life balance, not booted out because I’ve become a liability. I had a vision of going out on a massive high, being able to tell all my old colleagues that I had a big blog now, a book deal in the works: I was going to leave them as a mumpreneur. I did not see myself carrying out my desk bits in a cardboard box with a pathetic shuffle, being eyed by the security guard like an intern busted stealing the copier paper.

  God, if they sack me, that is just going to feed the news cycle. But they’d know that. Wouldn’t they? Oh, Christ.

  There’s nothing in my inbox from Francesca and I’m too scared to reach out to her, in case I hear exactly what I know she would be sensible to say: your stock has fallen into the basement. Um, no thanks.

  It’s too much. It’s all too much. My marriage is now a stony, silent wasteland. My career is screwed, even if I had known how the hell I would jump back into it. The internet trolls are probably out in force, ready to tear me apart. I’m too scared to actually look. Will kept reassuring me that loyal blog followers were coming to my aid, but I don’t think my soul can handle sifting through the vile invective to find a few nuggets of loving gold.

  My phone vibrates on the sofa armrest, shocking me out of my image of drowning in a sea of shitty website comments, the words ‘disgusting’, ‘ungrateful’, and ‘lazy’ swimming down my throat and up my nose as I thrash about for a little clean air. I snatch it up: Ted?

  Sarah: Hey chick, didn’t hear back from you. I’m coming tomorrow, whether you like it or not. I just miss your face too much. And we can talk xxx

  I miss Sarah’s face too, boy, do I. Someone who knew me before all this chaos. But the kitchen cupboards are empty and I don’t want to risk a trip to the Co-op for lunch ingredients, being stared at like the village leper. And would she be able to bring her own stepladder to get over the back fence?

  After a quick inbox refresh, there’s still nothing from Ted. I mean, of course there wouldn’t be at this time. But I wish there was. Tonight, I’m alone in this.

  And maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Fuck a duck!’

  My throat is hoarse from info- and emotion-dumping on Sarah, and I just about manage a laugh at her response.

  ‘Oops, sorry.’ Sarah looks down at the beautiful lump on her lap that is Cherry and, slightly too late, puts her hands over Chezza’s ears. Her nails are an amazing jade green and I feel a yearning in my heart for London nail salons. Those amazing, anonymous places where no one cares who you are, what you’ve blogged; they’re just going to perform an excellent manicure and send you on your way.

  I’ve covered the real experience of maternity leave I’ve been having (the shit sleep, the shitloads of washing, the actual shit under my fingernails, at times), the blog going viral, Ted’s new job offer in Hong Kong, the book I’ve been speed-writing, my phobia of work and the scary HR email, plus the 24 hours recently when I thought Cherry was going to end up in intensive care.

  ‘Blimey, Steve.’ Sarah fills her cheeks full of air and then pushes it out in one huge exhale. ‘That’s enough for ten women to handle, let alone one. But why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you tell me that it’s been so’ – her hands cup Cherry’s head again – ‘crap? It always seemed like you were living this sweet, suburban life, all sunny walks around the park and scones for tea.’

  ‘Ha!’ I slump down onto the kitchen chair next to hers and dip a tortilla crisp into some salsa. I love Sarah so much for hitting the M&S at the train station before she got here. ‘Walks around the park are not a jolly – they’re a necessity to get this one to give up and go to sleep. After twenty minutes of wailing. Sometimes I’m doing that three times a day. And if I get to stuff a scone in my gob of an afternoon it would be a major treat. And maybe the first thing I’ve eaten that day.’ I chuck my podgy angel under the chin. ‘Maybe a different mum would handle it differently. Maybe a different baby would be, um, easier. But I do love her. And I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I know I’m lucky.’

  Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘To get puke in your hair and never sleep for more than four hours at a time? I do not count that as lucky, love. Though she is a total peach. Should have called you Peachy, shouldn’t they, hunny-bunny?’ she coos at Cherry, who waves her fists in delight. She had a crazy good night’s sleep, for her: just one night feed. I wonder if she can pick up on my batshit vibes right now and has decided she doesn’t want to risk me going fully nuts at 2am or leaving her behind more permanently in the library next time. Whatever it is, long may it last. Though it only makes me feel guiltier that I’ve ranted so much about sleeplessness and now here she is, defying all my moans.

  ‘And I’m sorry, but where is Ted in all of this? He still hasn’t called you, right?’

  I shrug. As time and distance stretches between us, I’m regretting how I reacted to Ted’s Hong Kong news. I don’t regret saying it wasn’t for me, but the emotional blow up and storming off to the pub like a reckless teen was unnecessary – if Ted ever just disappeared on me like that, without a phone or a wallet, I’d have helicopters out looking for him within the hour. And now after all that drama, he’s dealing with the revelation that his wife is a secret blogger who slags him off the minute his back is turned. I can kind of see why he’s not really in the mood to talk. Neither am I: I haven’t posted or answered a single comment since the Daily Britain first picked up on the blog.

  Sarah scrunches her lips up in the way I know means she’s chewing back something critical she’d love to say, but which the PR in her knows is too harsh. ‘So what are you going to do?’ She dips a crisp in the tomato salsa and transfers it into her mouth. Dropping a blob on Cherry’s head as sh
e does so. When she freezes, I just wave away her concern.

  ‘I’ve done worse – bit of a mint Cornetto the other week, while she was asleep on my lap. You get pretty good at pre-planning your snacks when you know you’ll be hunkered down under a hefty infant for thirty minutes. It’s harder to anticipate when you suddenly need to wee, though. Maybe I need a sort of space-suit that I could just relieve myself in…’

  Sarah smiles but widens her eyes in a pointed fashion. ‘Steve, don’t change the subject. What’s your next move?’

  I run my fingers through my freshly washed hair, now feeling like it’s been fluffed up with helium at the roots after so many days of being thick and heavy with grease. ‘I don’t know. Why are you asking me?’ I laugh weakly.

  ‘Tsk. You’ve forgotten so much of Magda’s Magna Carta, haven’t you? I’m going to have to remind you.’

  Magda was a boss Sarah and I shared when we first started working together, years ago. She was a doyenne of old-school PR and had a strict set of rules by which PRs should live and die by. 1) Never look at your watch during a Lunch. 2) You must never tell a client you are ‘busy’. Because nothing else in the world but them exists, so how could you possibly be? 3) Your hair says twenty per cent of your dialogue.

  Magda made it her mission to impart every single gem of wisdom she had to us before she retired; we used to have a Word Document with them all written down, in fact. It started off as a joke but we quickly realised we were taking ourselves much more seriously after absorbing her words and, as a result, other people then took us more seriously.

  Sarah wags her finger at me in a very Magda way. ‘There are no disasters, darling, only stories. And if you’re telling the story, you’re writing the ending. If it’s someone else doing the telling, who knows how the last page will read?’