Lauren
Woody refused to feed before we left, so is now, predictably, screaming like a banshee on acid in the back of the car.
‘Shh, darling. It’s OK. It’s OK. We’re almost there. Almost there.’
I’m not sure why I’m lying to my pre-verbal infant about our journey time, which is still fifty minutes away, with Google predicting traffic on the A23, but I lie on nevertheless.
‘Almost there, my baby. Almost there. Can you not play with Sophie the Giraffe? No? Oh, you’ve dropped her down the side. Ouch. You’re hurting Mummy’s ears, darling.’
A car honks me as I indicate into the right lane, and Woody startles and screams. Ear-piercing, can’t concentrate, feel like your whole spine is being ripped out, screams. A scream that I know won’t be satisfied by anything other than my breast.
‘OK, OK. Don’t cry darling. I’ll find somewhere. Shh shh. Oh babe. Babe! ’
The shrieks are so loud I’m half expecting a whale to come beach itself here in South Croydon. I indicate off the main road and start frantically scouring the residential streets for somewhere to pull over. It’s all permit-only parking and speed bumps to enforce the 20mph limit. Woody screams like each speed bump is a personal violation as I thud over them, swearing under my breath, sweat pouring from my armpits, my cortisol levels turning half my body into pre-cancerous cells.
No parking spots. My boobs start leaking with each cry. I wish breast milk could just stop being so fucking sentient. ‘I’M TRYING TO FIND A PARKING SPACE, BE PATIENT,’ I find myself screaming at my own breasts, who ignore me, and bloom milk through both my ugly, sagging feeding bra and lacklustre navy dress of shattered dreams. Finally, eventually, there’s a space. One that requires a reverse park, which I somehow manage despite the tirade of abuse ringing in my ears. I consider risking not buying a ticket, but this is Croydon, and I’ll definitely get clamped and towed with Woody still attached to my breast in the backseat, so I make him wait for ten minutes longer as I have to download a fucking parking app and pay five pound seventy for my twenty-second stay. I open the back seat, yank him out, and he buries himself into my neck, inconsolable and red and hands grabbing, and here it comes again. The maternal guilt. Wave after wave of it, crashing over me as I yank down my front and let Woody rummage for what he needs. There’s calm silence as I get the weird tug of my let-down and he guzzles, his pudgy hand reaching for my finger, then squeezing it and releasing it, his eyes fluttering shut.
‘No, no. You can’t sleep. Not yet. Not until I’ve got you back in the car seat.’
I check my phone. I am, madly, somehow, still on time. I left a 45-minute buffer for Woody to ruin timings, and it seems like my ‘paranoia’ – according to Tristan – is once again, paying off. According to our new sleep schedule, Woody was supposed to be asleep 20 minutes ago, and stay asleep for the length of the car journey. If he can drop off now (in the car seat, not attached to my breast), he’ll still not quite get long enough, but it’s not the end of the world. I switch him to the other side and he essentially dream-feeds until he empties that breast, while I see Steffi’s message saying she’s got the train on time. That’s one of the many things I love about Steffi – she’s always punctual. The goldilocks of the Little Women. Charlotte always arrives way too early. I’ve seen her loitering outside my house a full hour before she’s due around, checking her phone for when it’s not ‘too’ early to knock. And Nicki’s always late with an air of slight grandioseness.
I unlatch Woody and burp him to wake him. He starts wailing as I put him back in the car seat, but I can’t stay in this side street forever, so I take a deep breath, get into the front and start driving again. He cries for another ten minutes while I ride an adrenaline rollercoaster, twisting around as much as I dare without crashing, to offer assurances and to half chuck toys at him, hoping they’ll land on his lap. Usually, Tristan drives and I sit in the back to placate him with songs and Melty Sticks. It’s still so hellish we stay roughly within a mile radius of our home thinking it’s not worth the stress.
Woody finally sleeps as Google tells me we have fifteen minutes to go. As I watch his eyes droop in the mirror we installed on the back seat, my shoulders loosen, and my grip gets lighter on the wheel. I’m alone again. For fifteen blissful minutes. I am just me, and this car and this traffic jam. A gasp of freedom and myselfness.
So, of course, I use this precious time to run through the horrid fight I had with Tristan just before I left.
‘Where’s his lunch?’ I’d asked, returning from the bathroom where I’d spent ten minutes cleaning up my ruined lipstick mouth. ‘You’d said you’d pack it?’
Tristan was throwing Woody in the air and catching him while he gurgled in delight.
‘I wasn’t sure what he was having,’ Tristan said, rolling Woody down for a raspberry blow on his stomach. ‘I didn’t want to pack the wrong thing.’
‘So you decided not to bother at all?’
‘I just knew you’d get angry if I packed the wrong thing.’
I stormed over to the cupboard, flung the door open, and wrenched out a spaghetti bolognese pouch, a prune pouch, and a half-open packet of the maize Melty Sticks that are so expensive they must be made of saffron or something. I tossed them into the nappy bag with two spoons – one to feed Woody with, one for him to hold to gaslight him into thinking he’s feeding himself as that’s the only way he’ll eat.
‘What makes me angry,’ I said. ‘Is you’re his actual DAD and you don’t know how to feed him.’
Tristan, sensing trouble, put Woody down, who crawled off to probably stick his finger in a plug socket while necking a small battery. He got up off the floor, holding his hands up like the Melty Sticks in my palm were a loaded pistol. ‘I know how to feed my own son, thank you very much, . Just not to your very precise standards.’
‘Oh, so it’s my fault? For being too controlling? How convenient.’
‘You know I always get it wrong when I pack the food.’
‘And you’d have thought you’d get it right by now!’
He’d sighed and pinched the top of his nose. ‘The rules change every day. Your rules change every day.’
‘They’re not my fucking rules, Tristan. They’re the fucking NHS weaning guidelines. And, you feeding him actual human food, full of salt, and not cut small enough so he might choke to death, like last time, isn’t me being controlling. It’s literally just trying to ensure our child doesn’t die of heart disease before he’s two.’
‘A tiny bit of salt wasn’t going to give him heart disease.’
‘Oh thank you, Doctor and Qualified Nutritionist. I didn’t know marketing managers were so multi-disciplined.’
We never used to be sarcastic with each other. Never used to get caught in the loop-the-loop of ‘ you ’ re controlling ’ , ‘no, you ’ re useless ’ cliche of The Married. I sometimes hear how I talk to Tristan and words float into my head. Henpecked. Nagging. Before I got my break in kids publishing, I was an admin assistant in some start-up full of macho-geek IT workers, who every Friday would tease each other if they were allowed out that night from their wives. ‘ Have you a pass? ’ they’d yell over the desks, all red and jeering, and applauding when the men gave a thumbs-up. Oh, those awful marriages, where men have to ask permission before they could go out and have fun and get drunk and live their life to the fullest. Oh, those awful, controlling wives, watching the clock, and asking ‘ when are you getting home ’ and ‘ I can ’ t believe you’re too pissed to look after the kids now and too hungover to look after them tomorrow .’ Such killjoys, these women. I used to shudder at the thought of becoming like them.
No, scrap that.
I used to shudder at the thought of anyone perceiving me to be like that.
Now, I don’t give a fuck. I’m too desperate.
Since Woody, now, yes, I do expect Tristan to have the common courtesy of asking if it’s OK for him to stay out and have fun, leaving me alone to put his own child to bed, leaving me alone in the house all evening, not having fun. We’ve had so many fights about him staying out late without asking, leaving me to wrestle Woody’s bedtime by myself, then stumbling in and waking me up at midnight, pissed and stinking, wanting to fuck me roughly in my prolapsed vagina, and then acting wounded when I push him off because I’m so angry and bitter about him waking me up, when sleep is so precious and I know I’ll have to take Woody all tomorrow morning too, while he groans and complains about his hangover like it’s not totally self-inflicted AND selfish because it means I can’t get a break on a Saturday morning, when the weekend is the only escape from this relentless motherhood grind.
Anger pulses through me like a heartbeat while I sit in the traffic jam, having a thousand arguments with Tristan in my head – saying all I want to say. Then, before I’ve even finished my imaginary dramatic closing speech, the shame arrives, beating me around the face for not being a nicer and more self-sacrificing wife and mother.
Cool Mum doesn ’ t mind when her husband goes out and leaves her alone all night. She ’ s just glad he ’ s having a good time.
Cool Mum doesn ’ t need to instruct her husband on how to wean the baby. She ’ s already got a weekly meal plan of organic baby-led weaning recipes that she batch-cooked on a Saturday morning, while her baby played quietly on the floor, and her happy husband slept off his hangover and morning blowie. She ’ s put them into cute little pots and labelled them for each day.
Cool Mum doesn ’ t argue with her husband all the time. They are a perfect family unit, romping around a beach somewhere, throwing their child into the air to the backdrop of a sunset, sneaking in great fucks during their baby ’ s four-hour nap.
I can feel suburbia arriving as I drive closer to the station. The dense housing either side of the A road is now being punctuated by fields, further punctuated by little puddles of new-build complexes that I remember from GCSE Geography being called ‘urban sprawl’ . Once I pass two Land Rovers, I know we’re almost there. I visited Nicki’s hometown a few times when we were students and stayed at each other’s during the long holidays. It was always so strange seeing my uni friends out of that context, and Nicki would give me an autobiographical tour of every passing pub or school or streetlight. ‘ That ’ s where I got drunk for the first time and pissed myself in the carpark. That ’ s where my friend, Mary, went to primary school but I couldn ’ t go because it ’ s catholic. That ’ s the streetlight where I kissed this guy called Harry who played bass in this terrible punk band called We ’ re Not Criminals. ’
I check my rearview mirror. Woody is still a sleeping cherub. I never love him more than when he’s unconscious. It hits me then, the love – rushing in like the world’s most powerful drug. Reminding me this darling baby is half Tristan’s – how both our blood pumps through his veins. I shouldn’t have shouted at Tristan. I should’ve just packed the nappy bag myself. He’s exhausted too. He’s stressed too. He doesn’t go out as much as the other NCT blokes. I should count myself lucky really. One of them left their girlfriend with their six-week-old baby to go on a cycling holiday.
I remember the last time I was dumb enough to confide in Mum about how much Tristan and I are fighting.
‘It’s not good for the baby, . Hearing you row like that.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just . . . if Tristan could just be a tiny bit less useless.’
She sighed down the phone. ‘Honestly, your generation expect too much of men. Of course, he’s not as good with the baby stuff. You’re the mother.’
‘Mum, that’s outdated and . . .’
‘No, sorry. I know your generation just LOVE to ignore the basic facts of biology but I wouldn’t let your father near you when you were a baby. Why would I want to? He was inept.’
I sighed and tried to explain. ‘But that’s weaponised incompetence. It’s . . .’
Mum’s scorn almost melted my phone. ‘Weaponised what now? Crikey. No wonder you’re always arguing. Just accept things how they are. Enjoy the baby! Men like copers, , so start coping better. Stop attacking your husband too. What good is that going to do any of you? You don’t want him to leave you.’
I’d shaken my head and wiped under my eyes, wondering why I’d used up Woody’s precious twenty-seven-minute nap thinking this would help. ‘So, you’re saying, I’ve got to suck it up to stay happily married,’ I said, ‘because wanting basic equality in parenting will result in divorce?’
‘Probably . . .’
I could hear her shrug over the phone.
Cope better. Cope better. Cope better.
Not even better. Just fucking cope.
This is my mantra when I get to the train station two minutes before the train is due and panic ripples through my body for what this means for Woody’s nap.
Cope better. Cope better. Cope better.
He’ll wake up if the car’s stationary for more than ten seconds. I’m already anxious Steffi’s going to take too long getting into the car and that she won’t do it quietly enough and that she’ll also mind the craziness of sitting in total silence for the whole drive. I’m hoping years of friendship will mean she understands, but I don’t know how to handle this unfamiliar station carpark. There’s nowhere to circle it seems, so I do what any reasonable person would do, and I head straight out of it and decide to come back when the train gets here. Woody stirs as I wait to turn out of the carpark and my heart rate surges up a notch.
‘No, shh, shh, we’ll be moving soon.’
I get back on the ring road and just keep turning left and left and left again until my phone tells me the train got in two minutes ago. That should be enough time for Steffi to get through the gates. I 360 around a roundabout and turn into the carpark again, just in time to see a surge of people streaming from the doors. Everyone’s in sundresses and shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, smiling and fanning themselves. There’s a slow queue of cars waiting to pick passengers up and I join, craning my neck to find Steffi’s face in the crowd. She’ll be wearing something understated and slinky, no doubt, to show off all the Peloton and such. It will probably be cream or white, to show off her gorgeous darker colouring and the fact she doesn’t have a child with grubby hands to ruin it instantly. Cars fill up in front of me. Woody stirs and I flinch whenever a door slams. Where’s Steffi? Where is she? I’m driving as slow as I humanly can so we’re still in motion, rather than stop-starting. The car behind me – typically a red-faced potato of a bloke in a BMW, is getting visibly angry that I’m not up the arsehole of the cars in front, like it makes any difference at all.
‘Calm down, calm down,’ I whisper – to him, to myself. Where’s Steffi? There’s only three cars in front now and I can’t see her. The stream of people has slowed to a tiny trickle. Everyone must be off the train now, so where is she? I crawl forward, hoping I’ll see her emerge, but no. Now two cars ahead. No Steffi. One car ahead . . . then nothing. Blank space and no Steffi. If I drive super slowly maybe she’ll appear? I inch and inch but I can see the guy behind me get redder.
He honks his horn. Woody stirs.
‘There’s no need for that.’
Then he honks three times – long and loud – and hangs his rotten face out the window. ‘GET A MOVE ON, YOU SLOW BITCH.’
Woody wakes and howls. Past Me, without a baby, would never accept being spoken to like this. I’d have given him the finger. I would’ve gotten out and had a go back. But this arsewipe is forgotten because all that matters is getting Woody back to sleep because he’s not had a long enough nap yet. Waking up now will throw the whole day, the whole night, my whole SHIT RELENTLESS LIFE. I roar out of the carpark and get back onto the ring road, hoping the movement will lull him back.
‘Shh, Shh-shhhhhhh. Go back to sleep, baby. Back to sleep. Please.’
But it’s not going to happen. His face is contorted into a scream. His little hands clenched in pudgy fists. He’s furious at being woken but not willing to go the fuck back to sleep. I know he needs me. That he won’t calm without me. So, I rev up and speed through the ring road for the fourth time, clunking to a hard stop in a parking space about ten metres from the station entrance. I run out the car, muttering, ‘fuck fuck fuck, fuck this, fuck you Steffi, fuck my life, fuck my endless fucking life, ’ and hoist Woody from his car seat – the scream he releases so loud that several people turn to look. He’s exhausted, red-eyed, inconsolable. I bounce him, I rock him. I fold myself into the backseat and try to shove a nipple in his mouth but he spits it out like it’s a poisoned entree. I hoick him back out of the car and bounce him, narrating as I go to try and calm him down.
‘Look babe. There’s a billboard. There’s a traffic light. There’s a queue of taxis. Isn’t life great? Please stop crying. Are you OK? Do you have a fever? Are you teething? What’s wrong? Why won’t you sleep? Why are you never asleep?’
Cope better. Cope better. Cope better.
And yet all I feel is disaster at the ruined nap. How this is going to play out all day. An overtired Woody at this baby shower. An overtired baby on the car journey home. An even worse night’s sleep than last night’s which maybe isn’t scientifically possible. I feel tears threatening to spill. A panic attack deciding whether to turn up or if, like me, it’s too tired and will send an IOU instead – probably at 2am tomorrow, when Woody no doubt wakes up.
‘Shh, shh. Don’t cry. It’s OK. Shh, shh.’
He starts to calm, and then, like the click of someone’s fingers, he’s fine. He gurgles. Smiles. Reaches out and grabs a piece of my hair in total delight. I stand down from the ledge. I blink back the tears. I cope. Sort of. Then I jump as someone taps me on the shoulder.
I whip around and there’s Steffi. Tanned and toned, slinky and perfect – the late fucking bitch who has ruined my life. She grins. Takes in Woody and squeals. Then she holds up two bits of giant plastic, and smiles, incredibly proud of herself.
‘I got us iced coffees! Whoop! What a treat!’