by Lauren Sams
‘What?’
‘He can’t . . . he can’t read. He can’t read anything.’ Ellie said it as if she really meant, ‘His white cell count is zero.’
‘But . . . he’s four.’
‘Exactly!’
‘Wait, El, I’m so confused. Do you mean that he’ll never read? Or just not right now?’
She didn’t answer. Could she hear me over her crying?
‘Ellie? Is Lucas, like, actually . . . slow? Or can he just not read right now? Ellie?’
‘He’s . . .’ sobs, ‘he’s . . .’ sobs, ‘he can’t read yet. All the other kids can read, Georgie. What have I done?’
‘Hon . . . what other kids?’
‘All the kids at his preschool. He’s the only one who can’t. My child is a dummy, George, and it’s all my fault.’
I tried hard to take Ellie seriously, but come on: a four-year-old who couldn’t read? It was like a Republican who didn’t believe in gun control – hardly newsworthy. ‘Is he even meant to be reading now? It seems kind of early. Isn’t that what school’s for?’
I could hear Ellie gulp down tears as she bravely told me how all the kids at Lucas’s preschool had been studying their ‘Reading Eggs’ (what?) for a full year now – except Lucas. And how the teacher had gently encouraged Ellie to download the app and she’d had to admit she’d never heard of it.
And that wasn’t all.
‘He can’t count past ten. He doesn’t know how to tell the time. He can’t tie his shoelaces. He doesn’t play even one musical instrument. Leo plays two!’
‘Who’s Leo?’
Ellie sighed. ‘His best friend.’
‘Oh. OK. Ellie, I need you to repeat something after me. You ready?’
She sighed again. ‘No.’
‘Ellie –’
‘Alright. What?’
‘Repeat after me. “I, Eleanor Hughes –”’
‘I, Eleanor Hughes.’
‘Am a good mother.’
Third sigh. ‘Am a good mother.’
‘And I understand –’
‘And I understand –’ I could practically hear the eyerolling at this point.
‘That it is completely ridiculous –’
‘That it is completely ridiculous –’
‘To expect a four-year-old –’
‘To expect a four-year-old –’
‘To read, write or tie his own shoelaces.’
‘To read, write or tie his own shoelaces.’
‘Much less learn a musical instrument.’
‘Much less learn a musical instrument.’
‘Much less two musical instruments.’
‘Much less two musical instruments.’
‘Because he is four.’
‘George –’
‘Ellie! Repeat. “Because he is four.”’
‘Because he is four.’
I heard a deep sigh on the other end.
‘Feel better?’
‘Kind of,’ she said. Then Ellie’s voice quietened. ‘Do you think Lucas is . . . developmentally delayed?’
‘No! Of course he’s not. Ellie, he’s a smart kid. He taught me how to use your DVR!’
‘Ugh! That just means he spends too much time watching TV!’
‘Oh, it does not. And he’s four. He’s allowed to watch TV. He’s not watching Entourage, for god’s sake.’
‘I know.’ She paused.
‘Ellie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re a good mum.’
Silence.
‘Ellie?’
‘What?’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know.’ A pause and then, ‘Thanks. But . . . you know this is your fault, right?’
‘What?!’
‘It is! After our fight just before Pip was born, when you told me that Lucas didn’t need to go to Mandarin lessons or Kids Who Kode, I backed off a bit. I let him watch non-education-based TV. I let him ride his bike without knee pads. I let him drink a popper. And here we are.’
‘Ellie!’
She laughed. ‘It’s OK, I’m just joking. I did need to calm down a bit. But do you think I’m not doing enough? I mean, how could I not have known about Reading Eggs? Leo’s mum says he’s been doing them since he was two. Two!’
‘So what?’
‘So . . . maybe I don’t read enough books to Lucas. His teacher said his vocabulary isn’t as developed as it should be. Maybe we should enrol him in a language immersion program. Leo’s mum did that last summer and she said it really helped.’
‘What language?’
‘English.’
‘Ellie, Lucas’s home is an English language immersion program. Calm down. Lucas is fine. He speaks in full sentences, he says please and thank you, he has a healthy love of Emma Wiggle. He’s four. Don’t worry so much. He’s a great kid.’
‘Yeah, but Leo –’
I sighed. ‘Ellie, isn’t Leo the one who got his penis caught between the toilet seat and the lid?’
‘Yes.’ She giggled. ‘It’s mean to laugh at kids, George.’
‘Yeah, but . . . come on. Leo might be reading, but at least Lucas can piss in the bowl, you know?’
*
‘Shh! Shh! Be really quiet, OK?’
Footsteps. Not especially quiet ones. Coming down the hall. I heard the clomp-clomp of heels on wooden floorboards, followed closely by the definitive thud of men’s shoes.
Nina.
And Jed.
Nina and Jed.
I pulled the blankets up and snuggled into them, actually crossing my fingers that Pippa wouldn’t wake. How long had it been since she’d gone back to sleep? Unlike Jane, who went to sleep school before her baby was even born, I was no baby sleep expert. But the past seven months had taught me that babies needed at least forty-five minutes to get into a deep, unwakeable sleep. The kind of sleep that would not be interrupted by the clomping of drunken idiots. I checked my phone. 2.34 am. I had a vague memory of putting Pip back into her bassinet sometime around 1.50 am. I started to go over the lines I repeated in my head every time a plane passed overhead or the neighbours turned their music up.
Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up.
It always felt vaguely ludicrous, but sadly, part of me actually believed this would work.
I needed it to work. I needed it to work so I could have a break from the office and Meredith, and from Pip, so it could just be me. Just for a few hours.
‘Whose pram is that?’ Jed asked in a stage whisper.
‘Shh!’
‘What? I am whispering!’
‘It’s my friend’s.’
Friend? I was her best friend.
‘Do you live with her?’
‘Shh!’
‘I’m being quiet! Who do you live with?’
I could practically see Nina rolling her eyes at this moron. Or was she? The Nina I knew wouldn’t bring a random guy home to the house she shared with her best friend and newborn baby, so maybe I was wrong.
‘George. I live with my best friend, Georgie. And her baby.’
Nina hadn’t even told him about me? What had they been talking about for the past six weeks? How had she never mentioned me? Or Pip?
I heard them take their shoes off and chuck them on the floor with loud thuds. It felt weird, lying in the dark, being able to hear everything they said. But it was unintentional eavesdropping. Totally not my fault.
‘Wow. A baby.’
And the award for Most Redundant Statement goes to . . . Jed! (Also the award for Stupidest Name. Also probably the award for Worst Person.)
‘Shh! Come out to the kitchen. Do you want a drink?’
‘What do you have?’
‘Shh! Could you please just be quiet? Just come out the – SHIT!’ There was a loud crash, followed by an even louder cry from Neen.
I shot out of bed.
‘What happened?’ I asked, pulling my t-shirt down a
nd feeling the wetness at my chest. I would never, ever get used to my boobs leaking. I turned on the light and saw Nina, facedown, clutching at her ankle. Jed stood next to her, doing exactly nothing.
‘Ouch. Shit a brick, that hurts,’ said Neen.
‘What happened?’ I asked again.
She looked up at me.
‘Sorry, George. I didn’t mean to wake you. I fell, that’s all. I didn’t turn the light on and I slipped.’
‘Are you OK?’ I asked the question Jed should have asked.
She nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m OK. Uh . . . this is Jed.’
I looked at Jed, all six-foot-four of him. He stared directly at my milk-soaked nips. I cleared my throat and did the only thing I could think of: stuck out my hand. He stared at it for a second before shaking it.
‘Hey. You must be Georgie.’
I nodded. He was handsome, I’d give Nina that. Scruffy, almost-curly hair that could do with some VO5. Chin stubble. Swimmer’s shoulders. Alright, alright: I would have slept with him, too.
‘Sorry, George, go back to bed. I hope I didn’t wake Pippa. We’ll be really quiet.’ Nina smiled at me indulgently, no doubt hoping that all would be forgotten by morning. Which, for her, meant sometime between 9 and 11. For me, it was closer to 5. As in two-and-a-half hours from now.
‘Have a drink with us!’ Jed boomed, forgetting to whisper.
‘Shh!’ Nina and I said in unison.
‘Sorry, sorry!’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Keep it down, OK?’ I snapped. Nina glared at me, but Jed had the good sense to at least appear chagrined. He looked like he was about to be sent to the principal’s office. Ugh. I hated that Nina had made me the nag. I felt like her mum, busting her for being out on a school night. I didn’t know what else to say that wasn’t passive-aggressive or just plain aggressive, so I padded back to the bedroom and shut the door slowly so it wouldn’t slam. It let out a high-pitched squeak though, made worse by the fact that I was closing it so goddamn slowly.
And then Pippa started crying.
Chapter 7
Here’s what it’s like to get ready for a date when you have a baby: totally shit. I used to look forward to getting ready for dates: glass of wine in hand, Sophie B. Hawkins cranked up, spending an hour on my eye makeup (mainly because I kept fucking it up, but still).
This was different.
After a few days of messaging Alex, with some coaching from Nina, he asked me out to lunch. He seemed nice. Normal. He worked in marketing, had recently been to Spain and now had a thing for cava. Cool, me too. I bought mine from Liquorland, but still.
I was excited. Exhausted, sure, but maybe Ellie and Nina were right. Maybe dating would be good for me. I needed to at least give it a go. And Alex seemed like a decent guy. He was better than 98 per cent of the other guys on Tinder, and I wasn’t likely to meet someone offline, either. The only place I ever went was work, so unless you counted Neil, which I most definitely did not, Tinder was where it was at.
As a self-appointed Tinder expert, Nina took it upon herself to train me in how to respond to Alex’s messages, as if I hadn’t spent the last fifteen years dating. The irony that she found time to be around when something fun was going on, like this date, but was nowhere to be seen when I needed help with Pip was not lost on me. Since I had started work three weeks ago, Nina had picked Pip up from daycare exactly five times. Every other day, she’d messaged me at 4.30 to tell me something had come up and she couldn’t make it. Then I’d be left to make an excuse to Meredith about why I had to leave – picking up one’s infant not being a sufficiently vital reason – and fly out the door just in time to make the train.
But Nina’s interest in my dating life did mean she’d agreed to babysit Pip while Alex and I went out for lunch, so that was something. A glimpse of the old Nina. I didn’t know how long her enthusiasm would last (two dates? three?) so I decided to be grateful for it and let her help.
Getting ready for a date while also looking after a baby should be one of those psychological exercises Google makes its employees do when they’re interviewing for jobs.
Here’s how it goes.
You put the baby down for a nap and pray (please! please!) that it’s a long one, because you have some serious work to do before you’re show-ready again. There’s leg-shaving, hair-washing and face-masking. And that’s all before you even get out of the shower.
As you turn to leave the room, you thank all the heavens and gods et cetera (even though you question their existence) for Nina, who will be here to babysit Pippa while you leave the house for what will probably amount to no more than two hours. But what glorious hours they’ll be! You’ll see the sun! You’ll eat a meal! You’ll talk to an adult! You’ll drink wine! You might be kissed!
OK. Maybe not. You force yourself to calm down.
The baby cries for a bit. You attempt to placate her but, like a dog who knows you’re afraid, she can sense your tension, your need to get away quickly. So she cries more. You look around, wondering what will soothe her. You turn on the mobile above her cot, which twirls slowly while playing its repetitive song. She is entranced – for a second. Then she realises what you’re doing – she’s clever, this child of yours – and she resumes wailing.
Right. Plan B.
You pick her up. There, there, it will all be OK. No need to worry. Mummy’s here. Mummy’s here. Does she sense that you’re leaving? Is that possible? Maybe she’s super-smart. Maybe she’s a genius. In your slightly hyper, I’m-going-on-a-date state of excitement, anything seems possible. You pat her back and as the sobs start to ebb, your breathing slows too. Now she just needs to fall asleep, and then after that you can gently – so, so gently – lay her down in her cot and quietly tiptoe out of the room like this was all a dream. Then you can start getting ready. And you really need to start getting ready, because you’ve already spent ten minutes longer in here than you planned.
Bugger.
You feel her start to relax against you, snuggling in, and for a second, you forget what you’re meant to be doing – retreat, retreat, retreat! – because it feels so lovely to cuddle her like this. Maybe you should become a co-sleeper? This feels quite nice, right? Maybe all those weirdo co-sleepers are onto something.
No. Focus! You have a date – with a man – very soon. Get it together.
But first, you must gauge whether she’s asleep enough. Simply being asleep will not do. She has to be deeply, deeply asleep. If you put her down now, will she wake up? That’s what happened last night. Remember last night? She snuggles against you some more and you feel a little bit more guilt about having to put her down, just to add to all the other guilt you have sloshing around in your brain. Guilt soup.
You turn – ever so slightly – back towards the cot, hoping you can angle her just so and then set her down slowly. It’ll be easy. A cinch. Right? You can do this. You’re the adult. You’re in charge. You’re not her slave.
Hahahahahahahhaahhaahahaha. Wrong.
You gently pry her away from you, one centimetre at a time. Slowly, slowly, that’s the key here. She lets out a little baby groan.
Shit.
You pull her back and cuddle her gently and she settles again.
You start to wonder where the phrase ‘sleeping like a baby’ came from, because your baby seems to sleep very lightly indeed. Who are these babies who sleep through lawnmowers and earthquakes and tornados, and where can you order one?
Time is passing. How long has it been now? Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes? That can’t be right. You have to go in half an hour. Half an hour! Fuck. You won’t be able to wash your hair now. You’ll have to wear it up. Dry shampoo. You can dry shampoo it.
OK, so: shower, dry shampoo, hair up, quick makeup job, out the door.
Ooh, and get dressed. Don’t forget to get dressed.
You can’t wear your jeans. The only pair that still fits you has regurgitated milk down one leg, remember? You could wear a dress, but th
en you’d have to shave your legs, and if you did that, you probably wouldn’t have time to do your makeup. Nope. No deal. Makeup is way more important at this point. Your eye bags have eye bags.
You bob up and down, careful to fade the tempo of your rocking ever so slowly, so that you can put your baby down soon. Like, five minutes ago.
You find your silk pants – OK, polyester copy, but whatever – and they’re not too crushed. OK, so silk/polyester pants. And a top . . . maybe that nice wrap top that makes your boobs look great? The pale pink one? Yes. Except . . . do you have the right bra to wear with it? Remember, your boobs are basically separate entities from you now. Your nipples might actually be able to give you a manicure at this point, they hang so low. Trying to fit your inflated bosom back into a normal, pre-pregnancy bra is going to be like stuffing sausage meat back into the casing – really fucking messy. You’ll have to wear a maternity bra.
Which means you can’t wear the lovely boob top.
OK. So you’ll wear a jumper. A nice one. It’s no big deal. The one Neen bought you for your birthday – yep. It’s perfect.
Meanwhile, where is Nina? She should be here by now.
Oh, and don’t forget the nursing pads. Nothing says, ‘I am not suitable to sleep with’ like leaking breast milk.
Alright. How’s Pip going with this sleeping thing? Good? It’s gotta be good by now, right? It’s been . . . argh, how has it been half an hour? Now you only have twenty minutes left. Is there even time for a shower now? You have to shower. It’s non-negotiable. You smell like stale milk and sweat and sleep deprivation.
OK, Pip, time is ticking. Mama’s gotta go. You start to lift her from your chest again, trying to keep calm. Don’t panic, don’t panic, your internal voice says as you completely wig out. You’re close now. She’s off you. She’s suspended over the cot as you lower her, inch by inch, to the sheets. You pray that she’s warm enough because putting a blanket on, at this stage, is a fool’s game. It’ll surely wake her up and you can’t have that. You have to go.
She’s down! She’s down, she’s down, she’s down! PHEW. You back away slowly, like a jewel thief after a heist. You’re amazing. You did it.
See? Proof! You can have it all!