Confessions of a First-Time Mum Read online

  Confessions of a First-Time Mum

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Confessions of a First-Time Mum

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Confessions of a First-Time Mum

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Confessions of a First-Time Mum

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s note

  Also by Poppy Dolan

  Cocktails and Dreams

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Chicken and Tiny.

  In years to come, you might think it’s unfair that I’ve used so much of your experiences as babies for the inspiration to this book.

  But in the years to come beyond that, when you might just become parents yourself, you’ll totally see that I deserved some payback. Some serious payback.

  I love you both, and it’s been the best joy of my life to have you.

  Confessions of a First-Time Mum

  Blog post 2.13am 12/02/2018

  I hate Humpty Dumpty.

  There, I said it. Hate the guy. Glad he fell. He had it coming, sitting up high on a brick wall when his innards are only protected by a thin shell. Idiot.

  And what a waste of resources – all those hours of valuable time for the king’s horses and the king’s men, trying to reassemble his broken bits of shell and sticky egg gloop. They could have been rounding up highwaymen or eating apples. They probably didn’t even get overtime FFS.

  And what about Humpty’s poor parents? Did he think about them when he was doing his risky parkour nonsense? Imagine their trembling, pale eggy faces as they get that call: ‘Your son is gone. He fell off a wall. We tried everything we could… He was just sitting up there, apparently. Who knows why.’

  Or maybe this burning, raging hatred I feel comes from the fact that I have sung this rhyme for the eleventy-millionth time tonight and I. Just. Can’t. Take. It. Any. More.

  It’s the only thing that soothes Big Baby in the middle of one of her screech sessions. Humpty Dumpty, sung on a whispery loop right into her tiny ear, until she finally runs out of steam and falls asleep, her eyes puffy from an hour of screaming, her adorable snuffles a small repayment for all the jiggling and rocking and singing and pleading and bargaining and weeping I’ve done to get her there. And before you say, ‘Download it on your phone and just set the song to repeat, idiot!’ please know that this idiot has tried that shortcut and all I got was an infant looking at me with red-faced fury, as if she’d bought VIP tickets for Streisand and I was fobbing her off with a Britney bootleg CD. It has to be me, it has to be live, it has to be just loud enough to be heard but not too loud or she starts wriggling and crying and raging again. I’ve said before that she’s not an easy baby, right?!

  Other Half suggested I record myself singing and he could play it, take over a few of the ear-splitting duties maybe, but she wasn’t falling for that, either. Big Baby’s Mum Only Please policy is round the clock: it applies to who feeds her porridge, who changes her nappy, who pulls her clothes on, and off again, who does her bath and who does the 11pm, the 2am and the 4.30am sing and jiggle and sing and jiggle. And it’s me, just me. So here we are.

  And here I am, baby finally conked out in my arms, her face as round and red as a bowl of jam, a cuddly dead weight in my arms as I sit up against the unfriendly wooden headboard of the bed. The totally angelic look on her face as she slumbers almost – almost – blocks out the memory of the wrangling to get her to sleep. This face may terrorise me when it’s in full scream but it’s also the face I love the MOST in the world. I could drink it in all night. Even if the weight of her head is starting to cut off circulation to my arms.

  Luckily my phone was in grabbing distance, so you’re now treated to this angsty, hormonal, bad-tempered, sleep-deprived post that I’ve tapped out with one thumb. You’re welcome.

  You’re most likely yelling, ‘Sleep when the baby sleeps!’ I know you are. And you’re right. But knowing I’ll probably be up again in two hours or so and that trying to slide her into her cot without waking her is a Rubik’s Cube of a puzzle my knackered brain can’t handle, I’m choosing to blog instead. To speak to you. Because you understand, right? You get it. That’s why you’re awake at whatever ungodly hour you’re reading this. Because you’ve already read everything else on the internet. Because you haven’t slept for more than three hours straight since you became a parent.

  Good night or, if you’re like me, good sitting-up-nap.

  First-Time Mum x

  Chapter 1

  Undressing in public.

  At 9.15 on a Wednesday morning.

  I’ll be honest, it’s not exactly what I had in mind when I pictured my maternity leave.

  But at least the leggings hitting the floor this morning are Cherry’s and not mine. At six and a quarter months, she doesn’t really have a problem with being naked in a room full of strangers; in fact, by the way her legs are bicycling in the air I’d say she’s getting quite the kick out of it today. And if she’s gurgling and gurning, rather than puce-red and screaming at the top of her lungs, then who cares how it happened. Let’s just drink it in. Because this girl is LOUD when she wants to be.

  That’s another thing I never imagined about being at home with a new baby: having to sprint out of coffee shops and sensory classes and the library (God, especially the library) because your bundle of joy sounds more like a bundle of cats screaming into a megaphone. In our first few months together I didn’t make it through one class or one coffee morning without having to give in to the white-hot, clammy shame and running home. There are only so many winces and grimaces and even tuts from fellow mums you can take before you break and take shelter on the sofa with Homes Under the Hammer. She’d still yell at home, of course, but at least I was the only one there to see it. But that feeling of shame always lingered, even after half a packet of chocolate digestives. So it’s just easier for everyone if we leave the baby classes and the library well alone.

  The baby weigh-ins at the local community hall are the one space that I don’t feel embarrassed to the point of spontaneous combustion. Run by a team of veteran health visitors, they quickly reassured me on my first visit that they’d seen it all, not to worry, and have a Penguin biscuit and a cup of tea. I actually wept with relief over that first Penguin. And something about these smiling ladies and their collective smell of lemon hand-sanitizer seems to chill Cherry out too. As a result, I’ve been back every week since, rain or shine, scream or gurgle. It’s our one regular outing.

  I had this fuzzy, Insta-filtered film of maternity leave that used to play on a loop while I was pregnant: I’d make a whole tribe of mum mates and we’d swap sweet potato purée recipes while sipping cappuccinos in a stylish little cafe with mismatched cushions. These days the closest I get to that is scalding myself on a McDonalds hot chocolate when I’ve run out of options to get Cherry to nap and I’ve chauffeured her around town in the car, taking refuge in a drive-thru when she finally drops off. The thirty minutes of precious nap time that follow I usually spend on Twitter or Instagram, feeling even more rubbish about all the bright and breezy things I’m not doing as a mum.

  But the weigh-ins I can manage. The weigh-ins I have n
ailed by now, mostly because I know no one will judge me for a weepy outburst (mine or Cherry’s) and it’s only a ten-minute walk home should a nuclear meltdown occur (usually Cherry’s, but I can’t pretend I’ve not lost it many times in the last few months). It goes like this: you wheel in your buggy and take a ticket from the raffle book by the door, leaving your baby’s red medical book in the tray. You then plonk yourself down on a plastic seat and wait your turn. In this waiting moment, I try and catch the eye of any other mums in the room. Not easy when I’m usually the very first in and all the other mums are there with newborns and are squinty and half-asleep due to extreme sleep deprivation. Don’t get me wrong, Cherry’s no sleeping angel but, six months in, I’ve just gradually accepted that I will never sleep for more than four hours together ever again. Those newborn mums haven’t had that sad realisation yet. They’re still in the shock and grief stage of mourning their old sleep patterns. And lie-ins. Oh, sweet Jesus, lie-ins…

  The few times I have caught the eye of a mum or two, I’ve totally blown it. Simple questions like, ‘Gorgeous baby! What’s her name?’ Or, ‘Oh, she loves her Sophie giraffe, doesn’t she? So cute’ leave me spluttering and stumbling over my words, like a teenage boy from a single-sex school when faced with a hundred real girls. I usually go red, mumble something lame into my change bag and dash up to the front when my number is called. Another potential mum mate slips through the net, all because I’ve forgotten how to talk to humans. I’ll go home and role-play it over the washing-up: ‘Thanks!’ I coo brightly, to the Brillo pad, ‘her name is Cherry, after my gran. Her name was Cheryl but everyone called her Cherry. And, ‘She really does! She’s chewed off most of the pattern!’ Cue tinkling laugh. ‘Did you know they’ve sold fifty million Sophies worldwide? Amazing!’ But somehow I can only talk this easily over crusty lasagne dishes. Not great for anyone, but especially awful when you consider I was a brilliant PR executive before I went on leave. But that feels like a million years ago now. That feels like another person altogether. Something about those early weeks with Cherry, where she cried and cried and I cried and cried and Ted just stared at us both, open-mouthed in panic, have stripped away who I was, how I used to feel, and now I’m this incoherent blob left behind. I used to be the absolute queen of small-talk. Now I just feel small, full stop.

  Now I’m brilliant at nappy changes, bouncing an angry baby to sleep on my gym ball and whipping Cherry’s clothes off in under three minutes so she can be weighed before the cold air on her nethers starts a huge wee all over the table. It’s happened. It’s happened a fair few times.

  This is my life now.

  I keep one hand on Cherry’s portly tum as I crouch down and fish her leggings off the floor.

  ‘That’s it!’ the West Indian health visitor sitting in front of me beams in approval. ‘Keep baby nice and safe. We never know when they might choose to roll over for the first time!’

  The glow of a job well done, even one this tiny, spreads through me as I unpop her vest, wriggle it up over her head and then unfasten her nappy.

  ‘We’re ready for you!’ the Scottish health visitor with the all-white bobbed hair beckons me over. I really should have thought to ask their names when I first started coming religiously – yet another social skill that’s deserted me – and now it’s far too late. So in my head they get tagged by accent or hair colour. Not really fitting for the people who’ve kept me sane, but it’s the best I can do.

  She presses a few buttons on the electronic scales and I gently lower Cherry in.

  ‘Lovely, lovely.’ Her Scottish burr is always reassuring, and Cherry swings her fists about in her general direction, which is one of her signs of affection. The health visitor notes down a number in our red book, closes it and hands it back. ‘All spot on, right on track. A good weight.’ The ember of the approval buzz comes back to life in me again. ‘Anything you want to talk about, any worries?’

  ‘Well, actually I was think—’

  ‘Be quiet! Be quiet!’ A shrill voice fills the room.

  ‘Nice girls! Nice girls!’ Now the same voice is echoing back, overlapping itself, bouncing from wall to wall. I scoop a naked Cherry up into my arms on instinct.

  Through the open door of the room I’m in, I see two toddlers, each with a cap of thick black curls, bound into the waiting area. They continue their loud yabbering as they run up and down the rows of chairs, bumping into the knees of the few other mothers there and shoving a buggy out of their path. A tall, olive-skinned man with matching dark hair leaps into the room seconds later.

  ‘Esme, Olive!’ he hisses through clamped teeth, ‘be quiet, please! Nice girl behaviour for Dad, please!’ Even with his face pulled into stress wrinkles he is gorgeous – like, David Gandy gorgeous. Like, whoah. Cheek bones you could hurt yourself on.

  Old hormones I’d forgotten about suddenly sit up and beg. Woof, very woof.

  A warmth spreads around my ribcage, maybe embarrassment for having such impure thoughts in front of infants. But then the warmth splashes the tops of my trainers.

  ‘Oh, Cherry!’ The wet patch on my T-shirt is growing, making my baggy white tee suddenly very clingy and see-through. I plonk her back on the changing mat and scramble on a new nappy and her clothes. Of course I have two sets of spare clothes in my bag for her, but none for me. Of course! My cheeks burn with shame. What did I think would happen if I held a naked baby on my hip?! And it would have to happen in front of Britain’s Next Top Dad. He’s still chasing his girls at breakneck speed around the room, so with a bit of luck he won’t see — or smell – what’s going on over here.

  I grimace at the health visitors in apology and wheel us quickly out of the room and towards the bathrooms, where I can be safely alone with my mortification.

  * * *

  After five minutes of redressing Cherry while I shiver in my wet T-shirt, ten minutes of blotting at it with rough paper towels, another ten of crouching under the hand dryer while Cherry screamed her head off (she’s not keen on the noise) and five minutes of looking in the mirror muttering, ‘Idiot, idiot, idiot,’ to myself, I finally realised I could just take off my white T-shirt and zip my jacket right up to save my decency.

  Better to feel like a secret flasher than having a cold, wee-stained top stuck to your skin.

  I’m just pushing the pram out towards the front doors, when the same two toddlers tornado-whirl out in front of me, and beat me to it.

  Their tiny hands slap against the glass. ‘Out! Out! Ooooooout, Dad!’

  Here comes the model again, striding towards them with a scowl amidst his designer stubble.

  ‘Would you like a hand?’ I hear myself squeak, pointing towards the door. He doesn’t seem to have a buggy with him, so opening those heavy doors with twins around your feet and not have them immediately run into the car park is going to be a struggle.

  With a sigh, he turns sky-blue eyes to me, flicking them up and down over my outfit. I feel like those piercing peepers can see through my old nylon running jacket and to the bobbled grey maternity bra underneath.

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  ‘With your girls?’ I prompt, in case he hasn’t heard me properly.

  ‘I can manage!’ he spits, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

  The health visitors file out of the room behind me, locking up with boxes of hand gel and biros under their arms.

  I will not cry in front of them today. In fact, I will not cry today, full stop. Mean man or no mean man, today will be a good day.

  Blinking rapidly, I grip the plastic handle of my buggy and tap my feet as I wait for the grouchy sod to depart. Holding the door open for my health visitor buds, I think: These are manners, mate. They don’t cost anything, you know. I think it in a really ballsy, pithy way. The way the old Stevie would have just said out loud, if someone had pushed in front of her to the bar or if a client had been throwing their toys around for no good reason. But mum Stevie just thinks them and keeps her lip buttoned.

/>   Alone in the car park, I take a deep breath. I’ve tried to appreciate the small things in the last few weeks, put things in perspective when I feel low. OK, my social life is coated in dust, I get no sleep and all my rare conversations with my husband revolve around Cherry’s first taste of mango or some new hanging baskets outside the GP surgery. But I have a lot to be grateful for. A healthy baby, a husband, all my body parts in working order. Spring sunshine falling on my face, the rustle of blossom in the trees as a breeze picks up, peace and quiet.

  ‘Shit, am I in the right place?’ Someone is rattling the locked doors to the centre, just behind me.

  ‘We’re closed for today, dear!’ the Scottish health visitor calls out, from the open window of her car as she starts her engine. ‘Clinic hours are nine-fifteen to ten.’

  The woman, now slightly slumped against the doors with a tiny baby in a sling at her front, looks at her watch. ‘It’s ten-oh-seven! Could you just nip back in? I won’t take a mo to get him naked, honest.’

  Scottish lady smiles the patient, uncrackable smile of someone who has heard every wheedling trick in the book, but she’s far too busy for that kind of nonsense. ‘That’s nine-fifteen next week – we look forward to seeing you!’ Her little red Fiat crunches away on the gravel.

  ‘Stuff it. I’ll put him on the digital kitchen scales at home.’ The woman shrugs and peers down into the sling, readjusting its stretchy folds slightly. ‘Did you miss it, too?’

  I’ve been such a silent observer in this little exchange, it takes a moment for me to clock she’s talking to me. She’s got a pixie crop of thick, honey-blonde hair, sticking up at all angles, and ruddy cheeks from walking at speed with her little bundle.

  ‘Um. No. First one here, actually.’

  Her eyes widen. Oh good, I sound like a swot.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to do something now I’m here. If I’ve made it out of the front door I should capitalise on that. Fancy a walk around the park?’ She nods in the direction of the scrubby play park opposite, next to the local football grounds.