So Thrilled For You

Lauren

I can’t stop staring at Nicki’s stomach.

It’s like one of those portraits where the eyes follow you around the art gallery, except, wherever I am in this ridiculous greenhouse party, there’s her swollen tummy, in my eye-line, churning my stomach as it strains out of its dungarees.

Every time I see it I want to cry. Or scream. Or run away. Or run towards her, hugging her, crying for everything that’s coming her way that’s too late to stop. My poor poor friend. And poor poor me. And poor poor all of us. I can see it now I’m on the other side – how motherhood is a banana skin we all trip up on. Everyone warns you it’s slippery, and the fall really hurts, but we distrust and dislike the whinging mothers that come before us – shut up, it’s your choice, woman – until it’s our turn to tread on the same banana skin, and over we go, ouch, flailing on the floor, our bodies piling high, warning the others behind us about the danger, but none of them listen and, ouch, here they are in the pile too, saying, ‘Why didn’t you warn me how hard it is?’

Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s just me? Maybe other mothers are fine, and happy, and don’t have a prolapsed mess where their vagina used to be, and I’m a selfish cunt who shouldn’t have had a baby and holy hell is it too late now.

That’s the biggest headfuck about motherhood – there’s no going back. There’s no trial period or refund with a receipt. You can’t possibly imagine how ridiculously hard it is, and when you do, it’s too late. You can’t go back to before, and, because of the ludicrous love you feel for your life-ruining baby, you wouldn’t want to anyway. Even though you would. But you’d like to keep the baby, too. Maybe suspended in some special fluid somehow, that keeps it warm and safe and fed and loved and alive while you can still be you. . . a womb, I guess. Nicki’s complained a dozen times since I arrived about how uncomfortable she is, and I’ve been feigning smiles and concerns and empathy, but, in my head, all I can think is, just you wait, my poor babe. Just you fucking wait. Pregnancy will feel like a dream.

Basically, I’m in the perfect mood for this baby shower on steroids. Can’t you tell?

There’s something about baby showers that makes everyone arrive punctually, and the twenty or so guests arrive in a frenzied fifteen-minute clump which almost breaks Charlotte.

‘Hello. Greetings. Welcome. Thanks for coming. Here’s your welcome cupcake. Be careful biting into it. There’s a prize if you get a pregnant one.’

One in five of the cupcakes has apparently been ‘fertilised’ with a ‘gooey centre’ so nobody really wants to eat them after hearing that. But everyone coos as they take their red velvet womb sponges and glittery prosecco cocktails, and coo appropriately when they see Nicki. Luckily for me, the next thing to coo over is Woody, and the older women especially have basically taken him off my hands. Mrs Davies is currently squidging his cheeks and throwing him up and down, allowing me to down this prosecco which leaves edible glitter all over my lips. The air-con unit is almost combusting with the effort of keeping the packed room cool. I’m already sweating, as is my uneaten cake to one side of me. For some reason, the prospect of a fertilised cupcake isn’t giving me an appetite. This is surprising as the only joy I’ve found during my maternity leave has been sitting in coffee shops and stuffing myself with butter icing while Woody cries in my arms. One day, during the ‘four-month sleep regression’, (can you regress from waking every two hours? It appears, yes, you can ) I ate an entire cake. A whole one. Like Bruce fucking Bogtrotter in Matilda . If only that cake was ‘ fertilised’ with ‘a gooey centre’ then maybe I’d be put off baked goods and then I’d fit into at least one item of my pre-pregnancy wardrobe.

Anyway, I sit with a nappy in one hand, and a black marker pen in the other, awaiting instructions from Charlotte, who is so manic her whole face is essentially one diluted pupil.

‘Right, ladies and gent,’ she says, nodding her head towards Nicki’s mate, George. He waves a jazz-hands hello and his glittery nail polish catches the sun. ‘Here’s a little icebreaker game so we can all get to know each other.’

Is there any collection of words worse than ‘ice breaker game’? Other than ‘rail replacement bus service’? Or ‘destination hen do’?

‘I want you to write a piece of advice for Nicki on the nappy. Then we wrap them up, and pass them along until we lose track, then open them up again and take it in turns to introduce ourselves and read out the advice.’

Am I just exhausted or does this game make literally no sense?

‘This way, Nicki has lovely keepsakes from her closest friends that she can read through when the baby is playing up. Go on, write whatever advice you like! It’s anonymous.’

I glance around at everyone else and wonder what the hell they could be writing. Nicki’s mum is still bouncing Woody over in the kitchen. If she’s anything like my mum, she’s already given Nicki all the unsolicited advice she’s ever going to need anyway. But everyone else seems suitably inspired to inscribe a Pampers with guidance. To my left, I look at what Steffi’s written. She’s half-heartedly scrawled ‘ ENJOY EVERY MOMENT ‘ and is now checking her phone for the nineteenth time. To my right, I catch the eyes of this skinny woman covered in freckles. We both shrug at the same time and she rolls her eyes at the circle around us.

‘I don’t want to be a bitch,’ she leans in, whispering. ‘But, I can’t imagine it’s the most practical way to give a mother advice, is it? What’s Nicki supposed to do? The baby starts crying, and she what? Has to unravel a pile of Pampers fortune cookies until she finds one that tells her how to burp it properly?’

I giggle, then feel disloyal to Charlotte for giggling, leaning closer. She smells delicious, like grown-up Ribena.

‘What are you going to write?’ she whispers.

‘I don’t know. What are you going to write?’

‘I’ll make a joke about gin, I guess.’ She scrunches up her nose. ‘Isn’t that how women plaster over their ruined marriage, pelvic floor, and vanished place in society . . . LOL but mummy loves gin ?’

I splutter with laughter and a few people look up so I cough as a cover. ‘I take it you’re not a mother?’

‘Hell no.’ She tilts her head and smiles. ‘And I take it you’re not a mother either?’

I point out Woody. ‘Actually, my baby’s over there.’

‘Shit. Sorry. I’m sure your pelvic floor and marriage are fine.’

I keep laughing and she seems relieved. ‘Both are fucked,’ I admit. ‘And I don’t like the taste of gin. So, I guess I’m fucked from all directions.’

‘Maybe that’s what you should write then?’ She points her pen at my blank nappy. ‘ You ’ re fucked? ’

My loyalty to Nicki arrives a moment too late, and I don’t let myself laugh at this one. Though, that’s the sort of thing I wish I could write on this nappy.

You ’ re fucked.

Yes, it ’ s much harder than you ever could’ve imagined. Sorry.

Try screaming into a pillow rather than the baby ’ s face.

Yes, you should ’ ve done your Kegels.

Apparently, it gets easier. I don ’ t know when.

‘Smile!’ Charlotte’s in front of us brandishing her phone. I blink like a blinded deer, noticing she’s taken the photo from the angle where my postpartum jowls are most prominent.

Jowls. Another thing nobody tells you about.

‘You must be Phoebe,’ Charlotte says to the freckled lady, lowering her phone for a second. ‘I recognise you from your profile picture. Thanks so much for coming.’

‘Thanks for inviting me.’

‘Smile again.’ She takes another casual shot. ‘Are you guys using the hashtag when you post?’ She asks, gripping my hand.

‘Just say yes,’ I whisper through the sides of my teeth, and Phoebe smirks and nods.

‘Fab. Brilliant. Perfect. Are you done with your nappies?’ she reaches out, and I scribble ‘Have gin in the cupboard’ before handing it over. ‘Great. We’ll now swap nappies with people to get to know each other and mix them up before Nicki gets to open them.’

Nicki, sitting in the comfiest chair in front of the air con, is looking over at us. Her face looks physically pained at what Charlotte’s organised, but she’s cradling her stomach and going along with it. And, judging by the fizz of feminine excitement around us, most of the guests have drunk as much baby shower Kool-Aid as Charlotte – metaphorically and literally.

Woody starts wailing from the kitchen, and I get up, excused from making any more small talk. ‘That’s mine ringing,’ I tell Phoebe, who grins. ‘Oh, by the way,’ I point to Steffi, lost in her phone next to me. ‘This is Steffi. Steffi, Phoebe. And vice versa.’

Steffi looks up with a ‘huh’ while Phoebe gives a weirdly knowing smile. ‘Oh, Steffi,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

But Woody’s wailing prevents me from hearing any further.

Woody’s starting to tire after Round Two of the games. I’ve known school sports days with less organisation, and, judging by how ‘hook the dummies in the roll top bath’ went, known them to be less competitive. An elbow fully went into someone’s face during the grand finale, though George held his hands up and said, ‘It wasn’t me.’ I momentarily feel I’ve staggered into some terrible cult while we all chant Nicki’s name as she’s challenged to change as many nappies on teddies as she can in one minute. There’s been too much noise, and small talk, and cheering, and planned fun for my baby (and me, to be honest) and not enough baseline nap to see him through. He starts hitting my back, whinging, and rubbing his eyes constantly. We’re all taking a time out and ‘refreshment break’ as Charlotte ferries baked goods from clump to clump. I end up sitting on a sofa next to Nicki, bookended by the two other mums there with their babies, trying to get Woody to latch. He’s torn between wanting milk and wanting to hang backwards, exposing my nipple to everyone, craning about to see what he’s missing. Then he wails, remembers he’s hungry and tired, and starts sucking again before anyone makes any sound, and off he pops.

The mum next to me makes a sympathetic face. I think she’s called Cara, from Nicki’s work. ‘They get so distracted as they get older, don’t they?’ Cara says. Though, I notice, her own baby’s breastfeeding like she’s just stepped out of a painting at the national gallery. She turns to Nicki, who’s watching us intently. ‘Do you know if you’re going to breastfeed?’

Nicki shrugs. ‘I don’t want to put pressure on myself. Like, if it happens, it happens. If not, fed is best, yeah?’

Cara nods and her baby bobs on her breast, unbothered by the movement. ‘Yes, of course. No pressure at all. It is lovely though. And so good for them.’

Nicki and I share a look. ‘We’ll see.’

I can’t not look at Nicki’s stomach. Woody must sense the adrenaline flow through me and bops off my breast again. ‘Shh. Back on, Woody. Come on. You need to eat to nap.’

‘Do you enjoy breastfeeding?’ Nicki asks me, once I manage to get Woody back on again. ‘You’re still doing it, at what? Nine months? That’s amazing.’

I have to stay perfectly still otherwise Woody will unlatch again. ‘It’s . . .’ I start.

. . . It’s impossible to explain, even to myself, what my relationship with breastfeeding is like. For the first few months, it was probably the biggest contributor towards my full-on mental breakdown. It was painful. It was terrible. Woody was totally shit at it. I used to call him Mr Crap Latch. ‘ Oh, there you have it, Mr Crap Latch strikes again, ’ I’d think. Absolutely furious at him, as it meant he never drank enough and therefore he’d be hungry again in ninety minutes time, meaning I’d get no decent sleep. Back then I was still stupid enough to believe that decent sleep was a possibility. That it was just around the corner if only Woody would latch properly. If I’d told Past Me then that I still wasn’t getting any sleep after nine months, I think I would’ve thrown myself off a bridge. I was so close anyway that I actively avoided walking across any. Tristan begged me to stop. ‘Please, stop. I can feed him. We can try bottles. Why are you doing this to yourself?’ That look in his eye again. The my-wife-is-malfunctioning look. The slight disgust. The this-isn ’ t-who-I-married .

‘He had a C-section so he needs breastmilk because he wasn’t exposed to all the good bacteria in my vaginal canal.’ I kept repeating it, wondering why he didn’t listen, wouldn’t believe me. Instead, he clenched his fists in frustration and didn’t unfurl them for months.

‘, we’ve gone through this. Those two things aren’t related to breastfeeding.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Plus, Woody was stuck in your vaginal canal for quite some time if I remember. Plenty of time to lick some germs and have a good immune system.’

‘You think this is funny? It’s not fucking funny.’

Plus, the midwives acted like bottles didn’t exist. ‘ Keep going, ’ they said. ‘ Try this rugby position ,’ they said. ‘ No no no, not like that, you ’ re doing it wrong. It ’ s not supposed to hurt but definitely keep doing it even if it ’ s agony. What ’ s formula? There isn’t any in the hospital so if you don’t get this right your baby will starve. You can’t go home until you’ve figured out the latch. Let me check it again. No, position is all wrong. Unlatch him. I know he ’ s screaming but unlatch him. Try again. No. Wrong again. He can ’ t breathe. He ’ ll get wind. No wonder he ’ s up all night with that latch. Does he have tongue tie? We don ’ t bother checking for it but he ’ s likely got it. If you want to get it checked you ’ ll have to pay a private lactation consultation ￡280 to tell you he has it, and then another ￡280 to cut it, and, oh, the NHS waiting list is three weeks long and your baby will die before then, but don ’ t you dare use formula. Nipple confusion! You need to establish your milk supply first! Your post-natal depression will get worse if you stop! Keep going, keep going. Don ’ t try using a bottle until it ’ s way too late for the baby to accept the bottle. Oh dear, yes, now you can ’ t leave your baby for more than three hours for about a year. Didn ’ t anyone tell you that? Why didn ’ t you introduce a bottle sooner? You ’ re giving your child the best start in life though. Your entire life might ’ ve shrunk to a mile ’ s radius from your front door, but at least the baby will never get sick, apart from all the times they get sick, and they ’ ll have a higher IQ, even though, actually, it appears that evidence is overstated. Here ’ s all the advice ever about how to start breastfeeding and how to keep breastfeeding as your life falls around you in tatters. Here ’ s absolutely no advice on how to stop. Don ’ t worry, they won ’ t still be doing it when they ’ re five years old. We don ’ t think . . . ’

Nicki’s watching me, noticing the long pause in my answer. I open my mouth again. So torn, always so torn, between telling the truth but also wanting to protect her from it. She’ll find out soon enough. Or maybe it will all go well for her. Maybe she’ll love breastfeeding and find it easy and introduce the bottle at the right time and manage to combi feed without fucking up her supply – therefore getting to leave her baby, and go on nights out, or to an art gallery, or for a long walk, or any other thing that makes you feel sane. Maybe it’s just me that’s rubbish, as per usual.

‘Breastfeeding is . . . such an experience,’ I manage to get out. ‘There’s . . . erm . . . it makes you . . .’ Mental. Resentful. Permanently hungry . ‘. . . it’s kind of cool, seeing your body make milk.’

Nicki smiles, relieved, then I feel an urgent sense of protection. ‘However,’ I add, just as Woody pulls off, rubbing his eyes, and nestles into my shoulder. My eyes check my watch. He’s getting sleepy right on time. Maybe putting him down for his nap won’t be hell on earth in this noisy greenhouse? Maybe today will be the day he just . . . sleeps. ‘I really would try to get them to take a bottle early – to help you get some sleep. If you exclusively breastfeed, then you basically have to exclusively do the night wakes too. I wish somebody had told me that.’

Nicki nods, noted. But Cara shakes her head. ‘Oh, I do all the wakes anyway,’ she interjects, taking her delicate child off one nipple and switching it to the other with no fuss.

‘You do?’ Nicki asks.

‘I don’t mind doing them,’ she adds, stroking her baby’s hair. ‘It’s for such a short time, isn’t it? I enjoy the cuddles. Plus, my husband is useless anyway. I wouldn’t trust him to get him back down. But, also, yes, I’m a nice wife.’ And she laughs.

I fake a smile as a calm rage lands on me like falling rain.

Cool Mum serenely copes with all the night wakes and lets her husband sleep. It doesn ’ t make sense for them both to be knackered.

Cool Mum is fine on four hours ’ broken sleep anyway. She admits she ’ s a little tired, yes, but then changes the subject rather than harping on about how she ’ s stuck in actual hell. Who needs to hear that?

Cool Mum doesn ’ t feel stone cold dread from 5pm onwards, worrying what sort of ridiculous atrocity of a night she has coming up. Especially as she does all the wakes, because ‘ she ’ s a nice wife ’ .

Would you like a blow job, honey? Before you go get eight hours sleep? I ’ m actually really up for sex too. I ’ m not too tired, or touched out, or traumatised by my horrific birth, or dry because of the breastfeeding, or petrified about the thought of sex because I could get pregnant and there ’ s no way I ’ m putting myself through this again. Let ’ s do it doggy style, to prove nothing has changed! Now, come on my tits. Well done. And off to sleep with you, darling husband. Don ’ t worry. I ’ ll do the night wakes. Let ’ s not let your life change at all. I don ’ t mind, I ’ m a Cool Mum.

‘Wow,’ I say, and I can’t quite help but deadpan. ‘Your husband is a lucky man.’

Poor Tristan. I feel such guilt for all the times I’ve made him stay up with me, even though he can’t help. ‘Don’t go to sleep,’ I’d begged him, three weeks in, when he was practically drooling he was so exhausted on our seventh wake of the night due to cluster feeding.

‘I’m no good to you awake,’ he’d pleaded. His exhaustion matching mine. Both of us broken in the name of equality.

‘No, you can’t leave me. Don’t close your eyes,’ I’d shouted. ‘Don’t you dare close your eyes.’

Cara blushes. ‘Well, I do often have to remind him. Men, eh?’

‘Men,’ I agree, shifting Woody from one shoulder to another so he doesn’t fall asleep on me.

‘Are you OK, Nicki?’ I ask.

She starts shifting herself up, having to twist into at least three different yoga positions to get herself out of the comfy chair.

‘Yes. Sorry. I’m just getting stiff. I need to keep moving. It hurts to sit for too long. I might go load the dishwasher.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I add, standing up, keen to escape this triggering nightmare. ‘I need to keep Woody up another twenty minutes before nap time, and he has this weird obsession with watching me do domestic chores.’ I turn back to Cara. ‘It was lovely to meet you.’

I escort a waddling Nicki into the kitchen, jiggling Woody to keep him awake. We pass clumps of her guests who all turn like she’s famous and throw out generic comments about how glowing she is, and what a lovely bump she has, and oh I can’t believe how soon it ’ s coming . The house is open plan, but the kitchen around the corner offers a tiny appearance of privacy. My phone vibrates against my leg as I wrangle Woody into the high chair Charlotte’s provided and give him a breadstick from the nappy bag to keep him entertained. I start collecting discarded glasses up with my fingers, and, as predicted, Woody falls quiet and watches me, like I’m doing the world’s most elaborate interpretative dance.

‘Sorry about Cara,’ Nicki half whispers. She’s put two glasses into the dishwasher and is now attempting to get herself onto a stool. My phone vibrates again. ‘She’s really nice but she missed the memo on fourth wave feminism.’

‘She was lovely,’ I lie.

‘She’s our engagement ring marketing person. As you can imagine, she’s perfect for it. She literally cries with happiness whenever any customer sends us a proposal story.’

I plop some more glasses down and scan the kitchen, seeing there’s no more in here. There are loads scattered around the living space, but I don’t have the strength to re-enter that performance of femininity yet. Plus, now Nicki’s chatting about Cara, I figure cleaning up was an excuse to exit anyway. ‘Matt better do some of the night wakes, anyway,’ she adds. ‘I want us to be totally equal.’

I nod as my phone judders on my leg for a third time.

‘God, it’s so stuffy in here,’ she says, distracted and fanning her face. ‘Will it break the air-con entirely if I crack a window? Do you mind? I’m too big.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ I lean over the sink and shove open a giant square of glass. The hot air streams in like a current but at least it’s fresh. I lean towards it, not realising how stuffy I was until this alternative is offered. Nicki sighs behind me. ‘That’s better. Phew. How long do you think we can hide in here?’

‘I say ten minutes before Charlotte brings you in to accept the animal sacrifice.’

We laugh together and say, ‘Bless her,’ and then Woody randomly joins in, clapping from his high chair. My love for him gallops back in, almost drowning me. I rush over to pluck him from his high chair so I can burrow myself into his scent. He laughs again and snuggles me back, and Nicki looks relieved for the first time in twenty minutes.

‘Oh he’s glorious,’ she tells me. ‘He’s making me get impatient. Can I have another cuddle?’

‘Of course.’

I tip Woody over and he spills into her arms happily – shoving his fingers into Nicki’s mouth. I take the moment to check my phone, fishing my device out from my sack dress. I lean against the counter as I check my notifications.

Two replies from the account I messaged earlier.

Please leave me alone.

I’ve reported you. Please. Get some help.

The final notification was from Instagram, telling me I’ve breached their community guidelines and I’ll have my account deleted if I continue my behaviour of harassment and intimidation.

The rain of my rage turns into a downpour, soaking me through. ‘Are you OK with Woody for a second?’ I ask Nicki, who is singing him a song. ‘I just need a wee.’

I run past her before she even agrees, past the hubbub. Charlotte tries calling after me, telling me the food’s served in twenty minutes. There’s no queue for the bathroom and I fall to the toilet – shaking my hands to try and dislodge all this energy. Then I put my head between my legs, and I howl into the flesh of my flabby postpartum thighs.

Transcript: Inspector Simmons interviewing Steffani Fox

Steffani: I was having the best day of my life that day. Literally. All my dreams were coming true. Why would I randomly decide to commit arson?

Simmons: That’s not strictly true, is it?

Steffani: What do you mean?

Simmons: Work might’ve been going well, but your friendship circle was strained – wouldn’t you say?

Steffani: Was it? I was too busy negotiating multi-million pound deals to feel any strain with anyone.

Simmons: And Nicki didn’t mind, you doing this at her party?

Steffani: Not at all. She was happy for me. They all were.