Читать книгу: «The Baby Diaries»
SAM BINNIE
The Baby Diaries
For M and F,
Singers in every weather
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
October 31st
November 2nd
December 1st
January 1st
February 1st
March 1st
April 2nd
May 1st
June 1st
July 2nd
August 1st
September 5th
October 3rd
November 2nd
Check list for hospital
Birth Certificate
Birth Announcement Card
Acknowledgements
Babies, and all that jazz
Morning Sickness
Spreading the News
Maternity clothes
Baby Showers
Gifting a pregnant
Choosing a name
Oh God, now the baby’s arrived and it’s in my house
A million dilemmas
Finally, my attempt to make this whole parenting thing easier on everyone
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
October 31st
Have you ever had that feeling you’ve forgotten something? Something nagging away at the back of your mind – until just the right movement in your memory triggers something else, which knocks another thing down, and like some Indiana Jones death trap, you can feel the clank-clunking of motion in the hidden rooms of your brain, gradually bringing the forgotten memory swinging like a battering ram into your conscious mind. You know that feeling?
That’s what I had yesterday.
I’ve been so busy since the wedding. Tony, my boss and head of Polka Dot Books (purveyors of fine supermarket fiction and glittery celeb books) was as good as his word with my promotion, promising me four new authors before disappearing off on a three-month ‘travelling sabbatical’ to God Knows Where, declaring he needed a break to ‘replenish his business strategies’. Of course, I was delighted that he’d kept his promise – even though that was more his mother Pamela’s doing – but soon realised why things had played out that way when I started trying to get details about them. Two were new, so their failure was liable to blow up in my face, one was an author I’d dealt with briefly and reluctantly and the final one I couldn’t get any details on at all.
Thom’s been settling into his new life as a trainee teacher: to no one’s surprise, he’s loving it. But as his enthusiasm has spilled over into our evenings, we’ve spent a great deal of time together marking papers – him, clunky essays on Wuthering Heights, me, swathes of mostly unreadable fiction: thirty-somethings who always dreamed of writing, aiming for Heathcliff and hitting Cliff Richard. So we’ve been dog tired, and when we’ve had time off we’ve been with my parents (with half an eye on my dad to check he was taking care of himself after his heart attack earlier this year), my nearly-new niece Frida, or our friends (those we hadn’t had to un-invite from the wedding). It was still great to be spending any time together where we weren’t arguing about money, or the importance of decorative accessories, or the social rules of such a complex endeavour as a wedding. But something kept nagging at me. Did we pay the register office? Had we thanked everyone? Was anyone still locked in the primary school reception venue? None of these nudged anything, although I worried at it like a tongue at a wobbly tooth. It would give eventually. And when it did, I just had to hope I didn’t have a huge apology to make to anyone.
Then, yesterday morning, Thom and I were comparing our weeks. Thom said he had me over a barrel, since I spent my time lunching authors and picking my favourite colour for a book jacket, while he was at the coal-face, earning every penny trying to hammer basic English in the heads of his students.
Me: You love it really.
Thom: I might love it, but I’m a hell of a lot more tired at the end of the day than I ever was making spreadsheets all day. Surprisingly.
Me: Can it really be that hard?
Thom: Kiki. I dare you to try dealing with a room full of hormonal teenagers.
That was it. Clink, clunk. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Click. Click. Ka-dunk.
BOOM.
I must have just frozen while my brain went into its noisy activity, because Thom stopped laughing at the mental image he’d conjured and looked at me, puzzled. ‘What’s up?’ he said.
I stood completely still, calculating over and over, mentally flicking through the pages of my pocket diary – dates, dates, dates. Dates. When I managed to reconnect my brain with my voice box, I just said, ‘I think we need to go to the chemist.’
Thom got it immediately. We rushed out, no coats, no scarves, into the freezing October afternoon, hurrying to the chemist around the corner. Outside, it felt like Before for a moment – we teased one another about who would go in and buy it, until I remembered what the whole thing was about, and my face collapsed. Thom went in while I read the notices in the window again and again. A Great Time To Give Up Smoking! the sign read. Or indeed, start, I thought. Then he was out, and we were hurrying home again, and I thought, Is this time included in the three minutes you have to count off? If I walk home slowly will I know the result immediately? Then we were home, and Thom was bustling me upstairs, and I went into the bathroom and locked the door. When I took the little test out of the box, the adrenaline was coursing through me and my hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t read one word of the instructions.
Me: How does this even work?
Thom: [through the door] Haven’t you ever watched TV? Piss on the stick, then we can find out who the father is later.
Me: Please.
Thom: [quiet] Sorry, Kiki. Pass the instructions under the door.
Me: [hands shaking, takes several goes]
Thom: OK. It’s the bit on the end. Then stick the lid back on and leave it three minutes. Do you want me to come in?
Me: Come in? In here? I don’t really know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
Thom: It’s OK, Keeks. I’m right here. We can do this later if you want. We don’t have to do it right now. We can talk about it first, if you want.
And just for a moment, I thought: ‘we’? We? If a little plus sign appeared in this window, it wouldn’t be Thom squandering his recent promotion. It wouldn’t be Thom who was the only one of his friends changing his name to ‘Mummy’. It wouldn’t be Thom pushing a large ham-weight through his tiny little birth canal. We? Me me me me me. Then I thought: oh, fuck it. Just take the test.
So I did.
I was still shaking, so managed to wee all over my own hands, but I clicked the cap back on and let it sit. I opened the bathroom door, and Thom rushed in.
Thom: How are you doing?
Me: You’re holding the hand that’s covered in my urine.
Thom: I’m going to take that as a ‘good’.
He hugged me for a long time, not even commenting on how much the bathroom now stank, then we went over together to check the result. A giant glowing plus sign greeted us.
Me: Well.
Thom: That’s unambiguous.
Me: Best of three?
Thom: It was a two-pack. I don’t think you’ll need me to go out again.
Me: Oh. Shit?
Thom took me into the living room, where we sat for ages in silence.
Thom: But … when?
Me: Our honeymoon.
Thom: How?
Me: Remember that night? We’d been walking under the Eiffel Tower? And we agreed to start trying because it could take years? The night before we sobered up and realised our mistake. That one.
Thom: Wow. Honeymoon baby.
Me: [breaking down sobbing] It’s so taaa-aa-aa- ack-y-y-y-y.
I cried for half an hour, then calmed down into a state of steady shock. Pregnant. I’m pregnant. As if reading my mind, Thom said in a ridiculous over-the-top voice, ‘I can’t believe we’re pregnant already!’ which managed to get a laugh out of me; it’s an all-time Worst Phrase, and my laugh stuck around until I remembered that it was, at least in one sense, true. My catatonic state returned.
Me: How did this happen?
Thom: Oh Keeks. When a man and a woman love one another very much –
Me: Thom, please! Really!
Thom: I don’t know, Kiki, these things sometimes happen, don’t they? I do love you very much, if that helps.
Me: I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. [whispering] This is ridiculous.
Thom: Shall we go to bed? Sometimes these things feel better in the morning.
Me: [staring at him]
Thom: Sorry, I don’t mean it like that. I know it’s not going to go away, and I know that no matter how much I say I love you and I support you and I feel for you, I know that it’s your body and I can only begin to imagine your panic and your fear. But I do love you, and loving you also involves knowing that sometimes you deal best with things by vanishing in a cocoon of sleep to work out what you have to do. Is that true?
Me: Yes.
Thom: Right. So let’s do one decision at a time. Would you like me to make you a drink before bed?
Me: Whisky.
Thom: Uh …
Me: OH GOD I CAN’T EVEN DRINK. Oh God! How much have I drunk in the last month? The last two months? OH GOD I DO NOTHING BUT DRINK.
Thom: Kiki. It’s fine. Let’s forget about the drink and just get into bed.
So we did just that. I amazed myself by falling straight to sleep – as Thom said, it’s how I cope with most things, but it meant it was an extra struggle this morning, having a mini version of the click-clunking remembering all over again. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. It still doesn’t make any sense. Yes, we both want kids very much, and yes, we look forward to having them, but now? Right now? I have just got my promotion, Thom has just started a mind-bogglingly poorly paid job, and we’re not ready for this. I feel so strange.
At work today, Alice noticed something was wrong, but only asked me once. She kept her distance for the rest of the day in the nicest possible manner, her excellent breeding (or lesbian superpower) knowing exactly when to press me and lavish me with attention, and when to leave me in peace. Alice, my best friend in the office, is head of Publicity here at Polka Dot Books and a far nicer, better and more capable person than the company deserves. Since Tony began his ridiculous absence, his mother Pamela (who also happens to be the founder of Polka Dot and its major shareholder) has tried to keep out of the office most of the time, wanting to believe her son knows what he’s doing. But we can all tell she’s worried the company will go down, even with people like Alice working here. Thankfully, this not being one of Pamela’s rare visiting days, I managed to get my head down and do work for most of the day; at lunchtime I had to get out of the office, so took my sandwich round the corner to window shop, and found myself in front of the giant Topshop on Oxford Street, facing the maternity wear entrance.
They had some lovely clothes. Gorgeous slim-fitting jeans with fatty pregna-panels in the sides, fabulous tops to show off pregna-busts and delicious high-waisted dresses. Not to mention the mini-me baby clothes: t-shirts and sweaters with the wildlife of the season embroidered on the front, so the infant can be just as sharp as the mother. Could I live like this? Is there hope? I started walking back to the office feeling better, feeling hopeful. Maybe we could do this. It’s not the seventies anymore: I wouldn’t have to wear huge frilly tents and give up my job. I could be like Rachida Dati, returning to work at the French government five days after having this baby. Only, not the French government. And not five days. Women do this all over the world, all the time. And this wouldn’t just be my baby. It would be Thom’s as well. And who’s going to make a better baby than me and Thom?
So I went to the beautiful stationery shop below our office and bought this diary. I had a sudden urge to keep a record of everything, all our decisions and mistakes and joys. It felt like the first good step in a long road ahead. But I felt good.
Then I left the shop and almost tripped over a woman screaming at her child.
Woman: Didn’t I tell you, Nicholas? Didn’t I say no?
Boy: [incoherent screaming]
Woman: No, don’t keep crying. Pull yourself together and answer me.
Boy: [screaming, but down a notch or two] I … want …
Woman: Nicholas, if you don’t behave right now, not only will Daddy be hearing about this, but you can forget about your skiing lesson with Joshua on Saturday.
Boy: [silent for a moment, weighing up the options, screams recommencing even higher and louder than before]
Woman: [crouching down next to him] Please, Nicholas, please, darling, just calm yourself down. What it is you’d like, Nicky?
Boy: [sensing his advantage, ups the screaming again]
Woman: Calm down, darling. You know Mummy loves you. Calm down. Shall we go back to the shop to get you the little car?
Boy: [pulling back the screams a little] Ye-ea-aah – [hiccupping sob]
Woman: Alright, darling. You were very good last night, weren’t you? You only got out of bed four times! I think you deserve a nice little treat, don’t you, darling?
Wait. I’d forgotten. OH GOD I hate children.
So my mood overall was unchanged this afternoon, and when I came home. Thom saw my face and pulled me into another big hug as I walked through the door, and took me to the sofa where he sat me down and smiled at me.
Thom: Do you know what I thought today, as I tried to convince a room full of thirteen-year-olds to not show one another photos of women’s breasts while I talked about Jane Eyre?
Me: Nope.
Thom: Whether it’s now, or whether it’s in a few years: our kid is going to be brilliant.
Me: Ha! I thought the same thing today. Just before I stumbled over a woman being emotionally blackmailed by her four-year-old.
Thom: You know we don’t have to be like that, don’t you? You can pick your parenting style: we can be Aloof Edwardian Parents. Or Distant Army Parents, who only see their children once a year. Or Caveman Parents, who feed any spare kids to their pet dinosaur.
Me: That’s the Flintstones.
Thom: I hardly think the Flintstones would feed a child to a dinosaur.
Me: [silence, thinking] We could be alright as parents. Maybe.
Thom: Maybe we could. But maybe … you’re too chicken to have a baby.
Me: [laughing] If ever that ploy was going to work on me …
Thom: Kiki, we will do whatever you like. For now, I’ll make us something to eat.
I sat, and I thought. God, if we can deal with Thom’s redundancy and Dad’s heart attack and my previously-very-badly-paid-and-very-high-stress job, all while planning a wedding that took over our lives, we should be able to manage a baby. Thom’s baby. And we might just be OK parents.
Me: [calling to the kitchen] Go on, then. Let’s have a baby.
Thom: [running back in] Wooohoooo!
Me: You can’t make noises like that in a labour ward. And I’m not telling my mum.
Thom: Christ. We have to tell people about this, don’t we?
Together: Shotgun!
Me: I called it. You can tell them.
So I’m happy. But I still blame you, Paris. I don’t know how this is your fault, but it is.
TO DO:
Grow baby
Have baby
Raise baby
November’s Classic Baby
Mrs Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books perfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a Brussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped out, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without faces. She drew them when she should have been totting up. They were Mrs Darling’s guesses.
Wendy came first, then John, then Michael.
For a week or two after Wendy came it was doubtful whether they would be able to keep her, as she was another mouth to feed. Mr Darling was frightfully proud of her, but he was very honourable, and he sat on the edge of Mrs Darling’s bed, holding her hand and calculating expenses, while she looked at him imploringly. She wanted to risk it, come what might, but that was not his way; his way was with a pencil and a piece of paper, and if she confused him with suggestions he had to begin at the beginning again.
Peter Pan
J. M. Barrie
November 2nd
I’ve spent the last two days at work doing internet searches for pregnancy, then shutting my screen off whenever somebody comes near my desk. Even Carol – our terrifying but secretly incredibly sweet senior Commissioning Editor, who, after a sordid and very exciting office affair, is now with Norman, our reserved head of accounts – has started giving me concerned looks. But I’ve discovered that the ‘classic wedding’ emails I signed up for during the wedding planning also come in a ‘Pregnancy and Babies’ version too. Which … is … something, I suppose?
What’s so strange is how much this new reality is in my thoughts all the time. I can’t put anything in my mouth without my brain suddenly doing a stop-and-search which makes me keep retching on what I’m eating, either because it might be dangerous or my tastebuds have suddenly banded together to bar certain foods. The radio plays nothing but songs about babies: Papa Don’t Preach, Hit Me Baby One More Time, pretty much anything from Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound, almost any pop song ever. Adverts are saturated with babies; pregnant women are everywhere; I’ve gone over my calendar again and again with my sketchy dates to try and work out at what stage I’ll be for everything we’ve got planned. And I’ll need to avoid Susie (my sister, and mother to seven-year-old twins Edward and Lily and baby Frida) – my vocabulary has suddenly shrunk to just a few phrases: the number of times I said ‘They’re such babies/why is he being such a baby/don’t be a baby’ at work today was absurd. Did I see Alice sniggering at one of those?
November 3rd
A baby. Pregnant. I’m still not used to this. I don’t even know where to start. New clothes? A cot? Thom said: ‘Maybe go and see a doctor.’ I’m glad I’m not doing this on my own.
At the doctor’s today, I looked around the waiting room at the other patients with new, wiser eyes. What could they be here for? A teenage girl looks nervous, and plays with her phone the whole time. Pregnant? A woman with three young children looks exhausted and keeps putting her head in her hands. Number four on the way? Then my name was called, and I saw my new doctor for the first time: a black woman a couple of years older than me, standing in the doorway, resting her hip against the frame and rubbing her pregnant stomach. In her office, we each tried to make the other sit down first. She said, ‘On three?’ and I laughed and sat down.
Dr Bedford: So, how can I help you today?
Me: [suddenly nervous] I think I might be … [indicating her]
Dr Bedford: Black?
Me: No! No, not … no, I mean –
Dr Bedford: I’m just kidding, Katherine.
I like her.
Dr Bedford: You think you might be pregnant?
Me: Haha, ha. Yes, I think I’m pregnant.
Dr Bedford: And what makes you think that?
Me: I’ve missed two periods, I did four pregnancy tests in the end and they were all positive.
Dr Bedford: Just wanting to make sure?
Me: Exactly.
Dr Bedford: And how do you feel about this pregnancy?
Me: It wasn’t exactly planned, so I freaked out a bit to begin with – we only just got married this summer –
Dr Bedford: Congratulations!
Me: Thank you – so I wasn’t really sure how to handle it all, but I’m really happy now. I think. We both are.
Dr Bedford: OK, congratulations for this too, then. You say you’ve missed two periods – do you think that’s how far along you could be?
Me: [suddenly feeling like I’ve made an embarrassing mistake] Ye-es. Is that a problem?
Dr Bedford: [laughing] Of course it’s not a problem, Katherine! We’re not going to send you away because you’re a little later noticing than some mothers! Now, I’ll give the hospital a ring to get you booked in for your twelve-week scan – obviously these things are often booked up a while in advance, but of course we’ll find space for you. How are you feeling in yourself?
Me: Fine, thanks.
Dr Bedford: Any tiredness, or aches? Any pains around your womb area?
Me: I did feel completely wiped out about a month ago. I kept coming home from work and falling straight to sleep. But I thought that was delayed trauma from everything that’s happened this year. Do you think it was related to this?
Dr Bedford: I think it almost certainly was. So you’re getting lots of rest now? Anything else, any aches?
Me: Some aching, but I thought it was just period pains. I assume that’s why I haven’t realised. I kept getting stretching, achey pains, then forgetting that the period itself didn’t actually show up. And my appetite has gone crazy – either I’m trying to eat everything, or there’s nothing I can eat without feeling sick. I actually kept meaning to come and see you about it.
Dr Bedford: That’s quite normal, I’m afraid. And how have you been taking care of yourself, generally? Do you smoke or take drugs?
Me: [triumphant] No! Neither!
Dr Bedford: [laughing again] Well, that is something. How about drinking? What’s your weekly intake?
Me: Average?
Dr Bedford: What do you think we’re talking; a bottle of wine a night?
Me: God, no! Actually, it has been way less recently. That’s weird.
Dr Bedford: As long as you’re cutting back now, that’s all that matters. What’s done is done, yes?
Me: I suppose so.
Dr Bedford: I’ll sort out that scan, and give you this booklet [hands over giant A4 folder]. It will hopefully answer any questions you’ve got, give you some idea how to take care of yourself, and let you know all the check-ups and scans you’ll be having. You might also want to think about joining one of the antenatal groups around here, to meet some other mums.
Me: [choking sound]
Dr Bedford: Are you alright?
Me: Mums. Other mums. Other mums. Is it hot in here?
Dr Bedford: It could help you, Katherine, if you want to talk about this with people who might know what you’re going through right now. Do you have any other questions?
Me: Doctor.
Dr Bedford: Yes, Katherine.
Me: Is this all going to be OK?
Dr Bedford: I can’t tell you that, Katherine, but you’re a sensible girl. If you’re eating well and taking care of yourself, I don’t see that there should be any reason to worry. But it’s the scan that can really tell you what you’re looking for. Anything else?
Me: Can you tell my parents?
Dr Bedford: Do you think they’ll be upset?
Me: No. I think they’ll be delighted. I’m just not sure I can cope with it.
Dr Bedford: Well, Katherine, I’m always here if you need support or guidance, but do bear in mind [leaning in, conspiratorial] I’ve only two months to my maternity leave and I do have quite a few people to see before I can go. So …
Me: I see. Thanks, Doctor.
Dr Bedford: [smiling] You’ll be fine.
She is a great doctor. Maybe we’ll bond over our babies and become the best of friends, and we’ll bring our kids up together and have loads of hilarious misadventures as a gang. But maybe I won’t mention that yet. We’ll just see how it goes.
Some things that, with hindsight, were possibly caused by me being pregnant:
1 Sleeping fourteen-hour nights for two whole weeks
2 On three separate occasions, eating Thom’s portion of dinner when he was fifteen minutes late home
3 Crying uncontrollably during a debate with Thom about funding cuts hitting vulnerable women and children
4 Crying uncontrollably at an old Gilmore Girls episode
5 Crying uncontrollably at a bread advert on TV
6 Being sick in my mouth when Alice brought me coffee at work two mornings in a row, after which she stopped doing it
7 Suddenly finding none of my bras fit properly
8 Going off booze (I thought that was odd)
9 Only wanting oranges for breakfast for an entire week
10 Finding Mum even more annoying than usual
Yes, I may have been ignoring some major clues there. But in my defence: I’ve had other things on my mind. Dad’s officially recovered from his heart attack, but I still worry about him. He retired early and happily from a boring senior job at a law firm years ago, and became a Jewellery Making teacher at the local college, to our surprise, all in an attempt to slow his life down and keep himself well. But he was never in one of the high-risk groups before the heart attack, which makes it harder to predict how he’ll fare over the next five, ten or twenty years. I have to admit: every time the phone rings and it’s Mum, my hearts dips. Is something wrong? But it never is (if you discount the neighbour’s noisy driveway, Gillian from her old work’s daughter’s new house, plastic bags, the price of petrol, the shoes she only bought last summer but are already falling apart) and I should be returning to pre-heart attack levels of stress. But I’m not. Every time she reports Dad’s got a cold, headache, or – heaven forbid – episode of heartburn, my adrenaline levels go through the roof. And Mum seems worse than usual at the moment – panicking, worrying, even forgetful. So I’ve been distracted. But how were we going to tell them about this baby? Would they like it? Would they think it was too fast?
At work, before Tony did his Business Strategy Sabbatical Disappearing Act™ he’d been on my case about my new position, pushing me to bring in some money to Polka Dot with my own books. I know his mother Pamela is on my side, since she actually forced him to honour the promotion he’d offered me, but she’s barely around. And Jacki Jones, the actress/popstar whose bestselling wedding book originally got me the promotion, is busy going through a very painful divorce, but Tony had still been nagging me to find out if there’s a second book in her. She signed up for a two-book deal, as Tony obviously imagined there’d be babies soon enough, but the state she’s in at the moment, I can’t bring myself to ask. We still see each other regularly: once a month we pick a bar and spend an evening laughing at the terrible coverage her divorce is getting. Our favourite so far is the story that she’s divorcing her husband for Pedro, one of her best friends and horrific ego-ridden monster-slash-celebrity photographer who snapped our wedding at Jacki’s incredibly kind request (and God knows how much of her own money). He’s truly awful (to me, anyway, accusing me of being a social climber at Jacki’s cursed wedding), but he is just her friend, and I believe he cares about her. She laughs at these dreadful stories, and the headlines illustrated with pap-snaps of her looking ‘tired’, ‘drawn’ and ‘emotional’, but she’s so sad. The more I know Jacki, the more I love her, and it’s awful to see this funny, smart, ambitious person being crushed just a little more every day. So I don’t know where I’m going to get that money-spinner.
For now, I’ve got the Four Authors of the Apocalypse to be dealing with.
Hilary Taylor – producer of Aga sagas. I’ve had brief dealings with her before, when Tony was trying to poach her from her last publisher. He won her over with a glossy presentation and proposed rejackets for her back catalogue, but we all suspect this is going to be one of those terrible triumphs of sales figures over blind optimism: she hasn’t sold well for years, and no amount of extra laminate on the jacket is likely to change anything about that. Favourite fact: In our email correspondence, she was unbelievably bitter and rude about her then-current publisher. Can’t wait until we receive that treatment too.
Matthew Holt – a brand-new author, of truly dire Scandi-crime. I have a horrible suspicion that he’s been no nearer to north-eastern Europe than watching Eurovision, but the crowbarred-in geographical references are the least of my complaints. His book is really, truly, very bad, but my only hope is that people will assume they’re genuinely Scandinavian and blame the translator. Favourite fact: Matthew Holt believes that you can walk directly from Denmark to Norway.
Jennifer Luck – another brand-new name, this time of trashy, shopping-and-handsome-bosses fiction. Magically inspired by completely current cultural reference point Sex and the City, she’s given us four books, all of which we’ve signed up: Nude in New York, Filthy in Finland, Hot in Hong Kong, and my personal favourite, Bonking in Brazil. Favourite fact: These books make me wish I’d never learnt to read.
Stuart Winton – a complete unknown. The manuscript I have is a very ropy erotica novel set in the eighties, under the pseudonym Tara Towne. But I can’t find any details on our systems to even contact Stuart, nor can I find any evidence of the contract. Favourite fact: This may be an elaborate prank Carol is playing on the rest of the office. I can’t even begin to say how unlikely this is.
And all of these I’m responsible for making sure they’re insanely successful.
TO DO:
Find out if it’s possible to change my career before the baby is born
Also: Eat some fruit
Don’t take up horse-riding, cross-country skiing or trampolining
Stop looking up ‘dangerous pregnancy activities’ online
November 4th
Alice has been great over the last few months. She had to suffer my wedding ups and downs; then a week of Tony pacing the office, sweating profusely and muttering, ‘When is she back?’ like I’d just nipped out for the antidote to his snakebite, so desperate was he to go on his ridiculous sabbatical. And on my return from our brief Paris honeymoon, she had to witness slight hysteria on my part as I realised Tony’s five-minute meeting with me was the only handover I’d be getting before he vanished for who-knows-how-long.
Alice is also still having to live with her ‘boyfriend’ despite the fact that everyone besides her family knows she’s gay. She does the work of three people here (a normal situation for publishing) while always keeping a smile on her face. As I thought over and over about breaking the news to my colleagues, I wondered for the first time in ages how she actually is, so took her out for drinks this evening, at our favourite little bar round the corner.
Alice: What’s this for? What are you up to?
Me: I’m not up to anything!
Alice: Are you about to set me up with someone? Is there a beautiful woman just waiting to spend the evening being entertained by me somewhere in this bar?
Me: Only me, I’m afraid. What’s your poison?
Alice: No one actually says that. ‘What’s your poison?’ What are you up to?
Me: Alice! Fine: it’s my round.
Alice: [browsing the menu] I … will have … a Slutty Horse, please.
Me: One Slutty Horse coming up, Madam. [to the barman] One Slutty Horse, one … Elderflower Handshake, please.
Alice: Are you making me drink alone?
Me: Oh no, I’m so sorry – I’m on these antibiotics –
Alice: [mouth agape]
Me: What?
Alice: [whispering] You’ve been married three months.
Me: [nervous] What?
Alice: [shakes head]
Me: What?
Alice: Kiki, Kiki, Kiki …
Me: Alice!
Alice: Don’t make me say it, Kiki.
[silence]
Me: Alice, please don’t tell anyone. It wasn’t even supposed to happen – we didn’t even mean it – but we did mean it, but only for one night, and we were drunk, and it just – please, you please mustn’t tell anyone, [almost sobbing] please.
Alice: Kiki, does this face look like it tells secrets?
We talked for a long time. We talked about how I was feeling, and how Thom was feeling, and how Tony and Pamela might take it, and what the maternity package may or may not be at Polka Dot (for some reason we haven’t had anyone go on maternity leave while we’ve been there). And some more about how I was feeling. She also told me, after her fourth Slutty Horse, that everyone knowing about Norman and Carol’s office romance doesn’t seem to have quenched their passion – she caught them snogging in Carol’s office after work the other evening. At the end of the night, as we stumbled to the tube station and down to our platforms (Alice stumbling after taking on all the Slutty Horses, me stumbling after taking on Alice), I realised we still hadn’t talked about how Alice was. ‘Plus ça change, my darling,’ she smiled, as I put her on her train home. Is she OK?
TO DO:
Start carrying around a hipflask filled with apple juice, for when someone next needs to see me drinking
Check Alice is OK tomorrow
November 9th
Body. Didn’t we have a deal? Didn’t we agree that enough was enough? That you would stop this nonsense? Yes, it’s probably hard work growing another human being, but do you need to make such a fuss? Women do it all over the world. Every day. And they’ve done it since before even my mum was born. So can you just stop? Please?
The last few days, the mild queasiness I’ve had on and off the last month or two has burst into something far worse. I just feel rotten. Tired, aching, and sick, sick, sick. It just doesn’t let up. And I don’t want to be one of those frail Victorian pregnants, hobbled by confinement and sent to rest until the baby is ready to go to boarding school, but I just can’t function like this. It ambushes me at moments throughout the day, but the worst thing – the meanest trick in the whole nausea book – is that this isn’t morning sickness. Oh no. In the morning, I wake feeling perky and wholesome, hoping that this might be the day this sickness has slung its hook. So I enjoy a good breakfast with Thom, and we talk, and we make plans, and behave like civilised, happy humans. Then at work, I might feel a bit odd, but it’s OK, I just need to get on with work. By lunchtime, my mouth tastes gross, and nothing seems that tempting, but I can normally find something to fill the gaping, ever-increasing black hole in my appetite (because, of course! – it wouldn’t be truly funny unless this nausea coincided with a huge increase in appetite!) and I’ll be fine for a few hours. If I get hungry in the afternoon, I’ve stocked my desk with fruit and nuts, plus a huge bottle of water. So I just about make it through the day. I start feeling hopeful. Maybe Thom and I can have a conversation tonight! Maybe I can make him dinner, to thank him for all his recent kindness and consideration! Perhaps we can even do some of that stuff we’re probably contractually obliged to do, post-wedding ceremony! That would be great! But even as I’m waving goodbye to everyone, I can feel it starting. My mouth-taste is switching from weird to bitter, from Status Normal to What The Hell Is Going On Here? By the time I’ve got a seat on the tube, I’m desperately praying that no one near me smells of anything, or, heaven forbid, dares to eat anything. And by the time Thom and I meet at home, all I can do is lie down, slipping tiny slivers of whatever arbitrary foodstuff I can handle that day into my mouth. I am not fun company right now.
November 10th
I’m sure morning sickness is supposed to fade around now, not get worse every day. This is something hatching in my brain and stomach, where Thom can’t even say particular foods to me without bile pooling in my mouth until I have to go and lie with my head on a really cold pillow, sipping water like an idiot. The first night I had this, Thom was thrown.
Thom: What’s … wrong with you?
Me: I don’t know. That morning sickness I was so delighted to have missed? I think it found me.
Thom: It’s seven pm.
Me: Thank you. I’ll just swallow your watch to let my stomach know and we should have this sorted in two seconds.
Thom: Sarcasm? This does sound serious. [sitting tentatively next to me on the bed]
Me: OH GOD don’t lean on me.
Thom: [leaping up] OK, no problem. Is there anything you can stomach eating?
Me: What have we got?
Thom: Um … pasta? Salad?
Me: [gulping] Nonotpastatalkaboutsomethingelse –
Thom: What would you like? Name it, and I’ll find it.
Me: Mm … Maybe … Do we have any salt and vinegar crisps? And a melon?
Thom: You’re depraved.
Me: I’m sure I’ll feel alright tomorrow. I’m just tired. Tomorrow I’ll be back to eating –
Thom: Don’t. Don’t say anything. I can’t risk you being sick on our bed. I’ll go and fetch your gourmet feast, then we sleep.
Me: Deal. Thank you.
And it’s just got worse since then. I avoid being sick all day, but what I can’t do is stop the feeling that I want to be sick, pretty much all the time now. I can’t tell you how angry it makes me to be reduced to that movie pregnant cliché, and to feel so bad with no purpose. This isn’t something that needs medicating – it’s just my body launching a full-on civil war. Well, Body, I shan’t forget this. You just remember that. This isn’t over.
November 11th
Christ, I still feel so terrible. The fact that there are some women who feel like this every day of their nine months I think is a pretty reasonable explanation for only children. I just about manage to stay upright at work, but I come home and just lie, with a downturned mouth, either on the bed or the sofa and try not to smell the food Thom is doing his damndest to cook and eat in a secretive manner. Then I eat as many mouthfuls of cornflakes and cold, cold milk as I can before my rebellious stomach sends reinforcements and the refuelling party is over. The enemy has realised my plan and all I can do is retreat to the sofa again, trying not to groan out loud and wishing so very, very hard that the feeling of being on a whirling roundabout would stop. Any time now. Like, now. Or now. Or now?
I’m sorry to feel so sorry for myself. As long as this baby is growing, and healthy, and all that jazz that pregnants say to one another like a mantra, then I can stomach this stomach.
Unless I wake up tomorrow and it’s still like this. In which case, I will not be happy.
OK, I can do this. Millions of people – women, I suppose; millions of women – get pregnant every day, and they just get on with it, don’t they? I mean: there will be frightened girls and women who don’t want their babies and don’t know what to do, and women who want babies so much and can’t have them, and here I am, happily married (for less than three months) with a supportive husband and family, so what am I worried about?
Yet the reality of this pregnancy rattles around my head. I can actually hear it: rattle rattle rattle, all the time. Are these sound-effect thoughts also a symptom of pregnancy? I’m delighted, then I’m terrified. I think of the fun we shall have with our own child, then I think of my body, and my social life, and – oh GOD – my career. Tony’s hardly a dream boss, but I love Polka Dot. What am I supposed to do? I’ve had this new position for even less time than I’ve been married, and I’ve got to somehow get a carrier pigeon to Tony in distant lands to let him know that he took a punt on me and it backfired? How am I going to face any of them? And Pamela too! She championed me against her son, and now I’m dragging the Polka Dot offices back sixty years, into the dark days when young women married, bred and vanished into a life of baking and school fêtes. Not that that’s even what I want – I don’t want to watch my career dissolve while I stay in the kitchen, weeping while my kids pelt me with Lego. But that’s definitely the assumption Pamela and Tony will make.
But then I get excited again. A baby, with Thom. Not that I even like babies – I really don’t, not at all – but it’s exciting, to be doing something so different, so wonderful, so creative, and to have this massive responsibility and to be sharing it with Thom. What an honour. This is the most wonderful thing. And then I think: a baby. Jesus. Not a baby Jesus, but a baby nonetheless. And one that I imagine will do a hell of a lot more crying than the one we have to thank for Christmas. How the hell are we going to cope with that?
And then the nausea comes back.
We spent tonight watching some belated fireworks from a pub window with Jim (a session musician and source of great kindness, and my oldest friend besides Eve) and Poppy, the girl he brought to our wedding and who seems like a keeper. I sat sipping an apple juice (‘Sorry, I’ve been feeling rough all week’) and trying to steady my stomach and absorb the letter from Dr Bedford this morning, confirming the date for the twelve-week scan. Thom’s got permission from school to go in late, and I’ll tell Polka I’m editing from home that day. I can’t stop thinking about it. Something about that scan will make it real, rather than just a distant To Do. And I’m sure it’s going to be much harder to keep up my heroin habit afterwards. Joke.
TO DO:
Start reading any of those pamphlets Dr Bedford gave me
November 14th
I got a letter today from the local team of midwives. Ah, the things you never thought you’d find out: who even knew there was a local team of midwives? A team sounds good, though. Like a team of crime-fighters. I hope they have cool uniforms, at least. The letter said that I had an appointment with them next week at the local hospital, and came wrapped around six different leaflets – what I should be eating, how I should be feeling, what’s going to be taken from me (blood and urine) and what’s going to be given (more information). I find it’s most helpful to write the appointment in my diary, tuck the whole thing safe at the back of my drawer, and just not think about it again. Note: this may not work when the actual baby is born.
Mum came over tonight to drop off some photos from our wedding (oh, how recent that seemed) and I thought she’d guess instantly when I was lying on the sofa, grey-faced and sipping water with a lemon in.
Mum: Hello darling, are you ill?
Me: My stomach. I think it’s a bug.
Mum: Oh, that’s awful. Have you had some plain toast?
Me: [trying not to retch at the thought] No, I don’t really …
Mum: Well, it’s the best thing for you.
Me: I know, but it’s not what my stomach wants right now.
Mum: Kiki, I think you’re being very silly; a nice piece of dry toast is exactly the kind of thing you should be eating if you want to feel any better. Is it something going round?
Me: [burping, a precursor to vomiting]
Thom: She’s been a bit sick all day, it might be better if we let her rest for a while.
Mum: [voice almost cracking] You’re being ridiculous! If you don’t want to feel better –
Thom: I’ll get her some toast later. I think she’s just a bit tired at the moment.
Mum: [grumpily] Well I shan’t kiss you, in case it’s catching and I give it to your father.
Thom: [sniggering]
Me: [faintly] Alright Mum. Thanks for the photos.
Mum: That’s perfectly alright. See you soon!
And she was gone. We both felt such relief, even though she is incredibly kind (sometimes) and did do a huge amount towards saving our wedding from disaster: but her attentions can be a little much, and if she’d kept saying the word toast I would definitely have been sick in front of her. And she seemed even more tense than usual – surely she wouldn’t care that much about my toast intake normally? Plus, we definitely don’t want to tell anyone until we’ve had the first scan. It still doesn’t seem real.
November 15th
Ah, crazy hormones. Yesterday I got home from work and, in a brief respite from nausea, pounced on Thom, then fell straight to sleep to a night of the filthiest dreams I have ever had. I can’t even name some of the people who featured for fear of this diary ever falling into the wrong hands, but it was … well, I’m not surprised I was more tired this morning than when I went to bed.
November 16th
Thom remembered the Diary today – last Christmas he’d given me a diary for the year, with trips and treats every month. Last month he’d dug me out a perfect Marion Ravenwood costume (wicker-basket-Marion, not Nazi-tent-Marion) for Halloween, and in return I found him a Captain Sharpe costume (yes, I know, Thom Sharpe, Captain Sharpe, I am exactly that imaginative); the combination of which resulted in us arriving slightly late, but very cheerful, to the party.
This month, the treat was simply Tickets. November seemed so far off when Thom arranged it all last Christmas that he couldn’t book anything, leaving it instead up to our whims of the moment. Right now, I didn’t know what I wanted – a gig? Theatre? A film? An exhibition? That is, until Thom suggested a swap.
Thom: You don’t have to go for this. But you know you’re only allowed the treat within the month – there are no rollovers.
Me: Where was this written down?
Thom: [taps side of his head] So, here’s your alternative. I go out, right now, and get you six ice-cold bottles of ginger beer, a jumbo bag of salted vegetable crisps, aaaand … [holding up his hands]
Me: A can – no, make it two; two cans of corned beef.
Thom: [shuddering] Whatever milady requires. So what do you say? Is it a swap?
We agreed to the swap, as I’m in no fit state to be going anywhere at the moment. But I did enjoy my strange, protein-heavy meal this evening immensely.
November 17th
Drinks with Eve tonight, my oldest, most difficult, but potentially-most-reformed friend (since meeting wonderful baker Mike, she’s developed a taste for not being a terrible human). Or rather, it was supposed to be drinks, but I changed it to a trip to the Wellcome Collection as I couldn’t face Eve giving me suspicious side-eyes when I wasn’t drinking. So we met outside, hugged, and headed in.
Me: [narrowing eyes at her, suspicious] You look very well.
Eve: [narrowing eyes too] So do you.
Me: My goodness, is Mike still making you incredibly happy? Goodness. He is, isn’t he? You love him.
Eve: I might. Do you know what it is, though? I just don’t see good-looking men anymore.
Me: Maybe it’s because you’re so in love.
Eve: [mock-concerned] No, I think my eyesight’s getting worse. I really need to see a doctor.
Me: Optician. And I don’t imagine they’ll be able to help with what you’ve got.
Eve: Syphilis?
Me: Wow. You old romantic.
Eve: But speaking of which …
She was right. We were right in front of a huge display of sexually transmitted diseases, complete with moving structures to illustrate the ravages of each one.
Eve: You sure know how to show a girl a good time.
Me: You just wait. There’s a mummified woman upstairs.
Eve: Woop!
As always, we linked arms and strolled around; Eve telling me about Mike and her work (particularly her terrible new boss, Joyce: ‘She couldn’t manage a ball downhill’) and me mostly listening, asking questions, and telling her a little bit about my family. Family. The whole time we were talking, I was just thinking, ‘Don’t mention you’re pregnant, don’t mention you’re pregnant,’ to the point where I was amazed she couldn’t read it behind my eyes whenever she looked at me. I even forced myself to loiter by the cabinet upstairs filled with tiny ceramic models of pregnant women with detachable stomachs, revealing miniature ceramic babies inside, just so Eve wouldn’t suspect anything in my avoidance of it. ‘That’ll be you, soon,’ Eve whispered in my ear, coming up behind me. I laughed manically, trying to turn it into a fake laugh, but only succeeding in sounding even more suspicious.
Eve: Are you pregnant?
Me: Are you pregnant?
Eve: No.
Me: [apologetically] Oh, I am. [taking the hand of a suit of armour] Don’t tell my husband, but this suit of armour loves me in a way Thom will never understand. I’m due to give birth to a beautiful toaster any day now.
Eve: Alright, alright. Tell me how Thom’s enjoying the teaching life.
So I think I managed to shake Eve off the trail. But why would she ask that?
November 18th
First meeting with Hilary Taylor today. She was exactly as delightful as I’d expected, constantly looking around the room during the meeting with me and Alice to see what she could have.
Alice: So we’re looking at promoting you within the supermarkets – we think that we can get you a placement in some of the weeklies, which should lift those sales.
Hilary: Can I have a copy of those ones? [pointing at a pile of Jacki’s books]
Me: Yes … of course. [passing her over a copy]
Hilary: No, I’ll need three – for my girls, you see.
Me: Right.
Alice: We also thought that you might like to start talking to your fans online –
Hilary: Do you have those flowers changed regularly?
Alice: I think someone just brought those in.
Hilary: They’re lovely. Can someone wrap them up for me?
Eventually Alice kicked me under the table and I called the meeting to a close before we were forced to donate our clothes to Hilary too. She hasn’t even submitted her new book to us yet. I should set her and Monica Warner up together – Monica’s one of our most successful authors, but she’s loaded beyond all imagining, and an absolute monster of a snob. I don’t know which of them would make it out alive.
TO DO:
Talk to Alice about whether we could make that meeting happen
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