Confessions of a First-Time Mum Read online

  Will: Sorry to miss the fun (?!) last night, ladies. The girls do go right through the night now, if you consider 5.12am to be the morning. Which I don’t. But little mercies etc. It will get better, Stevie. This too shall pass, as my mother always tells me. One day soon you will get a human amount of sleep as standard, it’s just that no one can tell you when that will be. The bastards. Anyway, the girls are requesting another sushi lesson from Stewart, which I think must mean you. We’re out this morning but do you both fancy another play date this afternoon?

  A part of me knows I should counter-offer to host here – the Girl Guide part – but a larger, more exhausted and selfish part of me knows that will involve a mad hour of cleaning, stacking junk and shoving more junk under the sofa and still my house will be nowhere near as stylish and cosy as Will’s. Maybe I could just get some nice biscuits from the Co-op on the way there?

  Nelle quickly reads my mind.

  Nelle: Technically, it could be my turn to host but there are underpants on every radiator here and a job-lot of napkins got delivered to our house instead of the office so the boxes are our new footstools. It’s a dump. But if you’re happy to have us, Will, I’ll be Teasmade while Stewart does her California rolls.

  Stevie: Deal. And I’ll bring some fancy choc-dipped biscuits. But I’m not totally happy about this new nickname. Do you not think growing up as Stevie was bad enough?!

  Will: Sorry, Stew, it’s pretty catchy. See you guys at 2ish then!

  * * *

  Olive and Esme really need very little instruction before they are deep into Doh concentration, mini furrowed brows so adorable as they roll and cut and line up their produce for their sushi cafe. I enjoy seeing Esme try to claim back a little of the twin power dynamic in this new skill – telling her sister that her sludge-green ‘rice’ isn’t in the right place and that she’d had the cutting wheel for too long, thank you. Olive narrows her eyes and ploughs on, maybe dreaming up some sort of two-year-old revenge. I hope we’re out of the house before that goes down.

  Cherry is drooling in true happiness; trying as hard as she can to reach out a fat fist and grab some of the shiny curls of the twins before her, she is wriggling with glee on my lap. Real live moving dolls for her entertainment. Bliss all round. It makes my heart happy to see her bond so completely with other children, giving me a glimpse of the world of friendship she’ll have as a toddler herself. I would happily allow ten toddlers to tread Play-Doh into my best rug if it meant she had friends who made her as happy as this when she’s two.

  Will set us up at the patio table outside, seeing as it’s a lovely, fine day and fresh air always has the magic power to make any long day of childcare more bearable. He’s lounging back in a rattan, boxy armchair, long legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. With the end of his slipper he gently bounces Joe in a bouncy chair though from where I’m sitting he looks blissfully asleep still. This is the magic sleeping baby I’ve heard so much about. I never thought I’d see one in real life, like a unicorn or a leprechaun or an ASOS top you can wear a bra with. I’m not sure whether it makes me feel better or worse to know they really do exist – encouraging and heart-breaking at the same time.

  ‘Jiggling a bouncy chair is one of those things I just can’t not do,’ Will says. ‘I still rock the shopping trolley back and forth while I’m looking for something in the supermarket, even though the girls are long out of those little plastic seats and are most likely two aisles down with their hands in a cereal box. Adrian says he could still make up two perfectly sterile bottles in his sleep. Some parenting things are burnt into your brain, I think. Like it or not.’

  ‘I can’t stop myself narrating everything as I go, for Cherry’s amusement. And then I realise she’s in bed and I’m saying to the toast, “Now will we have some Marmite, do you think, or shall we have Nutella as a little treaty-weaty?” It’s a bit of a worry, to be honest. The other day I was explaining the bin days to her when this gorgeous mum-mum busted me and I felt like a fruit bat.’

  ‘Fruit cake,’ Nelle says, as she carefully walks out with the tea tray and sets it down on the corner of the table, far away from the girls.

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Fruit bat, but we knew what you were on about. I’ve told you, you’ve got to watch those mum-mums. They will suck the joy and energy out of you quicker than you can say luxury four by four.’

  Will shifts a little in his seat. ‘They’re not all bad. You can’t dislike someone for having good hair. You’re both gorgeous and I like you.’

  ‘Your flattery is well timed and well received.’ Nelle winks at him. ‘But I don’t think you see the real sharpness of their manicures, being a tall, handsome, cultured, stay-at-home dad with a stunning home. You are their ultimate prize and they’d never turn on you.’

  He shrugs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch anything after “handsome”. You made me swoon. Now, let’s crack out the biscuits and you can update us on work dramas.’

  Nelle looks uncharacteristically flat at the mention of work. She worries at a thumbnail. ‘Do I have to?’

  Will looks up at the sky and gives this mock-consideration. ‘Well, seeing as how the nearest I get to drama these days is running low on anti-bac handwash of a Tuesday morning, I would say yes. You have to. I know I made the right decision to leave work, leave London and focus on the girls but it doesn’t mean I miss real, adult life any less. Now, out with it – have any insults been hurled, any punches thrown?’

  ‘No. It’s all gone quiet. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this with Joe so tiny, but with a family business there literally is no gap between “family” and “business”.’ Nelle sighs and rubs her hands against her black jeans. ‘When Darren and I fell for each other, we were pretty young, barely old enough to drive a car. Back then, having a big family to marry into and work with seemed like a dream – everything taken care of. No scary journey into the big bad world of work for me. But now…’

  ‘Is business really that bad?’ Will drops the teasing smile from his face and squeezes Nelle on the knee in sympathy.

  Nelle nods. ‘It’s not just that it’s bad, it’s that I never really wanted this to be my career, full stop. Party planning doesn’t really rev my engine, to be honest. Even less so when no one wants to hire you and your father-in-law is looking over the P&L for last year and making grumbles. My father-in-law is an expert grumbler these days.’

  ‘Can’t he help out more?’ I venture.

  ‘Not really. It’s just one arm of the big family empire; a few local cafes, a small boutique hotel, even a funeral parlour. The idea was the party business would cater to clients of all of those, but demand has just really dropped in the last few years.’ She holds up her hands, as if in surrender. ‘Smoked salmon sandwiches just aren’t drawing the crowds nowadays. It’s all bulgur wheat reductions served on a slate tile and I’m bugg—’ Her eyes flick to Esme and Olive. ‘I’m stumped to even begin to get my head round all that stuff.’

  ‘I always think stick to what you know,’ Will says, confidently. ‘I once stocked a whole line of sausage dog patterned crockery at Selfridges – plates, bowls, vases. All hand-painted, hand-thrown. Completely beautiful and expensive. I thought, “Everyone loves these dogs, even if I don’t, they’re everywhere. It’s bound to fly.”’ He shakes his head with a grimace. ‘In three months it was all in clearance. I am a cat person, plain and simple. Should have gone for the Persian Blue motif.’

  ‘But that’s it – I don’t know much.’ Nelle’s voice was low and gravelly. ‘Just parties. And having babies. Even when I don’t mean to.’ She smoothes one finger over Joe’s fluffy little sprouting of hair and a smile flickers back to her face.

  Even in the midst of money worries, and nights so broken they are hanging in pieces, and public outbursts, and Play-Doh marathons, there is just something in the sweet curve of a plump cheek or a tiny dark curl falling over an inquisitive eye, or even the fat folds behind the
knee of my own little chunk that just makes everything feel better. Like an opium you not only want to take, but must take, everyday. You get that crazy wave of love that sees you meticulously clean and nurture their every patch of flesh while your hair hasn’t seen shampoo in a week; you’ll buy them overpriced wooden stacking bricks and then ear-grating musical toys and hand-stitched, organic cotton T-shirts when you haven’t had anything new since Sainsbury’s did 20 per cent off jogging bottoms. They steal your heart, and your credit rating, these babies. And you are happy to let them have it all.

  ‘Babies – you know… babies,’ I blurt out, sending a biscuit crumb flying from the corner of my mouth. ‘People love spending money on their kids. You just need to find new ways for them to spend it.’

  Nelle frowns. ‘I don’t know. That fair didn’t really achieve much.’

  Will leans forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘But that was when you were still selling the usual stuff – anyone can hire a bouncy castle on their tod these days. What if there was something special, more unique you could offer. Like Stevie said, cash in on the fact people can’t stop spending on their kids. Emotion gets tied up with money and then there’s no holding back. Like when I took the girls to a pottery painting studio and ended up spending £50 on two beautifully painted teapots in twenty minutes.’ His lilting tone tells us all we really need to know about how appealing the teapots really were. ‘I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’ll keep them for ever, because my girls painted them.’

  ‘I’d love to have something like that for Cherry. A keepsake. I never did get any newborn pics done, or her handprints taken. Just too busy… surviving.’

  ‘Amen,’ Nelle says.

  ‘But if there was a more relaxed way to do those things – not in a shop or a hot studio, but in a home with a good changing facility and room to pace with a grumpy baby – I’d sign up like a shot. So… a keepsake party?’

  Will points at me. ‘You’d get NCT groups signing up together. Hypnobirthing groups. Or post-baby shower parties!’

  Nelle sits up a little straighter. ‘That could work. And I could just do it at home to start with? Or at one of the family cafes… close up on a quiet afternoon.’

  ‘Yes!’ I almost shout with excitement. ‘I’ll help!’

  ‘We’ll all help!’ Will adds.

  ‘We’ll all help, we’ll all help,’ the twins chants, banging happy fists into their Play-Doh creations. We’d better keep them away from any precious breakables.

  ‘Blimey.’ Nelle rubs her hands together. ‘This almost sounds like a plan.’

  Chapter 7

  From: Sarah Rimmer

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Hey yoooou

  Hello lovely,

  How are things? I realised I didn’t hear back from you on that other email and then that sent me into a shame spiral that I shouldn’t be sending you work stuff in your cuddly mummy bonding time. I’m sorry! Do you hate me? Have you dobbed me in? Dear IT guys: if you are monitoring my emails right now for a disciplinary, please know that I have photographic evidence of one of you pole dancing at the Christmas party. And I WILL fight dirty if it comes to it.

  Anyway, I just wanted to say: I miss you. So much. Can I come out and see you soon, for a weekend lunch? Are you allowed to drink again these days? Shall I bring three bottles of cava or should I REALLY go to town?!

  Can’t wait to see how life goes down in the sleepy burbs… Do you have a pinny? Do you make your own pastry? The mind boggles!

  Love you,

  Sarah x

  Sleepy burbs. If only Sarah knew. While I’ve been reading her email and simultaneously tickling Cherry under the chin to keep her happy in the Hobbycraft shopping trolley seat, I have had four more Facebook notifications ping through on my phone. Three friend requests for First-Time Mum, one more comment on my reply to Gin and Sippy Cups. And that’s just in the last twenty minutes. Since I created the profile three days ago, I’ve made 3,267 ‘friends’ and had a gazillion notifications of Likes, replies and mentions. I have that head-swimmy feeling that I’ve just resurfaced from a scuba dive the whole, entire time.

  I should turn off the notifications, really, and just check them at healthy intervals – say, twice a day, rather than between every two mouthfuls of porridge, like I did this morning. But I can’t stop myself. It’s like the dream I keep trying to wake myself up from. I need proof. Proof that this is all real. That this is happening to Stevie Cameron and not someone with a flat stomach and yet also guts, and a winning social media presence as well as a killer business plan. How can it have happened to the bumbling reality that is me?! I can’t find the nous to answer back to a snarky cashier in Co-op but somehow the righteous things my alter ego has typed in the dim light of my bedroom at 4am have really hit home. And people want to hear more. I’ve copied all my old blogs over to the Facebook page now, but I’m aware I need to write something new. And whatever it is had better be bloody good.

  When I was just writing for me, I didn’t have this melon-twisting notion. I just let all the mad, dark, stupid, silly, ungrateful, soppy things fall straight from my brain onto the screen. And that was that. I’d give it a cursory reread for typos or anything that could cause offence and away I would go, publishing without a backwards glance. But now I’m a bit… Well, to put it into terminology from my pregnant days, I’m constipated. I’m bunged up with ideas and half-ideas and thoughts I really want to get out, but I don’t seem to have the strength to just do it and commit. And no one has invented prune juice for blogs just yet. So my notes folder has a list with a baffling collection of middle-of-the-night thoughts running away with itself:

  I have a theory that Sudocrem is impossible to wash off so the government can easily track the shuffling movements of new parents, in case they crack and hold up their local John Lewis with a sharpened butter knife. It’s like that ink that explodes over money when you rob a bank: there is NO getting it off again.

  The world of Bing is MESSED UP. Where are the parents?! Why has an animated sock puppet the size and heft of a guinea pig been left in charge?! There’s a talking rabbit, panda and elephant, but mysteriously a tiny cat that is… just a cat. It’s too much.

  Stephen King should set his next horror novel in the fetid neck folds of Big Baby.

  I would kill for a really crisp Caesar salad that I don’t have to make myself and can eat in a silent room, totally alone. Over four hours.

  Top tips for arguing in code over Big Baby’s head. It’s not enough to be passive-aggressive and speak in the third person about ‘What Daddy’s Done Now’. You have to whisper everything, too.

  The last one makes me think, of course, of Ted. He’s messaged a few times to say he’s OK and the meetings are all going well and he even sent a video of himself for Cherry, which at first felt like a lovely thing to do, until I caught sight of the giant bed in the background with his discarded room service tray balanced on the corner. Fucker. A lie-in and a gourmet club sandwich whenever you have the urge?! Fucker. My rage is irrational but complete.

  I know I am going to have to smooth things over when he’s back in a few days. Or, at least, leave a door open for his apology. And suggest he get a promise in writing from his bosses that he won’t do this again without a year’s notice and the laying on of a full-time nanny at their expense. Maybe we could spend a special bonding day with Cherry and that would break the ice. It certainly will if she shouts down the local garden centre again. The vengeful looks of the assistant manager last time really helped Ted and me spend quality time together on the way home, spelling out elaborate insults for him in the car. Sometimes a ticking time bomb tot comes with its uses. Well, we’ll see when he’s back. We’ll see how low he stoops in shame and reverence. We’ll see.

  ‘Ceramic plates this way!’ Will jolts me out of my daydream of Ted prostrate on the floor, throwing roses and bars of Dairy Milk and spa vouchers at me while he begs to be allowed back into the bedroom, while I
just casually inspect the my nail varnish that the real me never, ever has the chance to apply these days.

  ‘Right, off we go.’ The trolley has an awkwardly large turning circle, not being a nimble supermarket one but a creaky affair Hobbycraft had in the corner of their entrance. Does anyone ever need a full, trolleyload of craft supplies? I suppose I’m about to find out.

  Will volunteered us for this sampling and pricing mission on Nelle’s behalf: if she could handle the twins plus Joe in the big park near the leisure centre in town for an hour, he and I would speedily scrutinise the wide aisles of Hobbycraft for materials we could use at a prototype keepsake party. Plain ceramics to be painted, boxes to be decoupaged, clay to push little hands and feet into, and anything else that might take our fancy. Nelle warned us not to go too mad – petty cash isn’t, apparently, exactly flowing like orange squash round her way. ‘It’s more like Ribena once a month,’ she grumbled, as we waved her off in the direction of the swings.

  ‘Ignore that,’ Will had said, once we were out of earshot. ‘I’ve got this.’ Not for the first time I felt a romantic tingle, looking at the sharp line of his jaw and absorbing his generosity and kindness. But I quickly reminded myself that not only was Will gay and I’m married, but with a sex life as frequent as a leap year my hormones were bound to look for a new object of affection. He’s a good friend, though: Will. Funny, when you need a lift. He listens, when you need to pour it all out. And unfailingly honest: he quickly winced and pointed back at the shelf when I picked up leopard-print decoupage paper. ‘No one wants to treasure the memory of their little one turning into a streetwalker, Steve.’

  Fair enough.

  I pull the trolley to a halt behind him as he inspects plain ceramic side plates, next to the range of specialised paints that can decorate them. ‘If we’re aiming for little kids, we don’t need to go for actual dinner plates, don’t you think?’ Will holds the plate up to Cherry’s fist. ‘Definitely covers our Cherry.’