Page 4 of So Thrilled For You

‘The sleep lady said we need to leave him for fifteen minutes to see if he self-settles,’ I whisper back, just as Woody screams so loud the neighbours will complain again.

‘He isn’t settling,’ Tristan says, not bothering to whisper now.

‘I don’t know what you mean, he sounds delighted.’

A blood curdling scream.

‘We have to get him up,’ Tristan says.

‘No, the sleep lady says . . .’

‘Lauren, he’s distraught.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t be. He should be asleep.’

‘I’m getting him up.’

‘Don’t you dare.’

But his screams are so desperate that I give in. Take a deep breath. Push my aching body out of bed, rub my eyes that feel like they’ve been sandpapered.

Fuck this. Fuck this.

Fuck fucking this.

‘Are you OK my darling?’ I say, plucking Woody from the cot, with his angry old man face neon red from the whole thirty seconds of me not responding to his every fucking relentless need. ‘I know, I know. Mummy’s here, it’s alright. I’m here. I love you.’

I shove my nipple into his mouth, and he sucks greedily, even though he shouldn’t be hungry. He can’t possibly be hungry. He sat on my nipple for an hour and fifty minutesonly an hour and fifteen minutes ago. Tristan sighs and turns over in bed, relaxed in the knowledge he can’t do anything to help. I sit in the rising dawn, seething with jealousy as Tristan’s breath steadies, while Woody sucks himself back into sleep too. Once he stills, I wait an extra ten minutes to ensure he’s in deep sleep before I attempt to pop my little finger into his mouth to unlatch him. Slowly, with anxiety rising in my stomach, I peel his suckered lips off my body. Then I hold Woody’s face againstmy breast for an additional ten minutes to ensure he’s in the deepest part of his sleep cycle, before lowering him back into the cot with more precision than Tom Cruise dangling from a ceiling inMission Impossible.

It works.

He’s asleep.

Finally, again. For now.

But, of course, it’s taken so long, and I’m now so pumped with stress, I won’t be able to get back to sleep myself.

5:30am, but the sun’s raging behind the curtains like it’s midday and Woody’s body heat is cooking me through my skin. I can smell my pungent armpits without even leaning into them. I’ll need to wash before the baby shower today. Try to not look how I feel – knowing everyone will be subconsciously analysing me to see if I’ve lost the baby weight yet. Of course I’ve not lost it. I hardly have time to wash, let alone exercise, or cook food that isn’t Nutella spooned directly into my mouth. I’m so exhausted there needs to be a different word for it. Something German to describe the tier of exhaustion you feel if you’ve been duped by society into having a baby. I can’t believe I used tocomplainabout tiredness before Woody. I was such an utter twat – declaring‘I’m exhausted’ after I’d gone out dancing til 4am, actually HAVING FUN and ENJOYING MY LIFE, and CHOOSING NOT TO SLEEP – knowing I could catch up the next night, and the next. These days, I’m tired in mybone marrow.I feel parts of my brain shrivel and whisper to each other, ‘Shall we develop some Alzheimer’s?’ And I’m this broken without having fun. Just the daily, relentless, grind of keeping Woody alive. Oh, I wish I could go back to sleep, but it’s not going to happen. Not with today looming.

Oh God, Nicki’s baby shower.

I head downstairs. My eyes hurt each time I blink, but I tell myself at least this is alone time. Time to just be me – broken, rotting, shell of Lauren. The kitchen’s full of chores that urgently need doing. Last night’s dinner still needs washing up. We didn’t get a chance to do it as Woody woke, screaming, only 45 minutes after we put him to sleep. Baby paraphernalia scatters most of the floor space – jarringly cheerful hunks of plastic coated with dried baby drool. I collapse onto the sofa and my arse lets out a novelty shriek as I pull out Sophie the Giraffe.

My house used to look quite nice.

My body used to look quite nice.

My face.

My life.

It didn’t even just look quite nice. Itfeltnice.

I was happy. On reflection, really quite deliciously happy.

And I’ve ruined it. Bulldozed it. Fucked it up forever.

Nicki’s baby shower today . . .

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