Page 11 of So Thrilled For You

‘I told her not to. I wish she’d relax more.’

I switch from co-conspirator to mum-defender. I know she’s A Lot, most of the time, but Dad doesn’t seem to realisehis behaviour causes so much of her stress. If he’d only help more, he’d magically get the chilled wife he’s spent his whole life pining for. They live in this ridiculous mausoleum because they BOTH made good money before retiring. It’s not like he was the sole breadwinner. I remember meeting Lauren a year or two ago for wine, and we’d drunk too much and complained about our mothers. She’d said Boomer women were the real losers of ‘70s feminism. ‘They were told they could go out and have a career, but they also married these man-children, brought up by ‘50s Stepford wives, who don’t know how to clean the bog,’I remember her slurring.‘Feminism backfired on them. They had to go work and feel liberated about that, but ALSO did the childcare and housework. It’s no coincidence that every woman in this country over the age of 60 has some kind of clinical anxiety disorder.’

I really do miss Lauren. I didn’t think she’d go all Baby Cult on me. But, since having Woody, whenever I’ve tried to call her, she rarely picks up the phone, claiming Woody’s about to feed, or about to nap, or about to ‘kick off’. It felt so magical, to both get pregnant in the same year, but I hardly hear from her. It’s so weird. She always used to check in but she’s basically vanished. She didn’t even reply to my last message about my pelvic girdle pain.

‘Maybe if you cleaned more, Mum would be less stressed?’ I tell dad, rubbing my stomach again.

‘We have a cleaner and she still gets stressed.’ He grins and finishes off his coffee with a dramaticahh. ‘Don’t worry Poppet. Your mum will calm down once everyone arrives.’

‘And once she’s collected all the ice in a twelve-mile radius.

‘That too.’

He stands up and smells his own armpit before wincing at what his nostrils have found. ‘Enjoy today, Nicki. It’s very special.’

It hits me again. Today is my baby shower.My baby shower.It’s still so surreal. 30-odd people are coming over to officiate this overwhelming life choice I’ve made, and now Phoebe, apparently, is going to be one of them.

The doorbell chimes, making the house feel like a church, and Dad jumps up to get it – unashamedly answering it in his saggy old man pants. I hear him chat to someone, laughing, as I pull out my phone once more. I decide not to overthink it, there’s no way Phoebe would’ve. She’s no doubt decided to come today on a whim, because she’s got a spare gap between art exhibition openings and other hipster parties.

‘Well, this is a surprise.’ I type out to Phoebe. Then I add a winky face.

There. Sent. Done. I sigh and lean back on the hard stool, shaking my head. I hold my bump in both hands to remind myself why I’m here. It’s what I wanted.

It’s here. Today. My baby shower. A shadow of my past attending. I may as well just surrender to the surreal of it all. It’s already so weird, it can’t possibly get any weirder.

‘Umm, Nicki?’ Dad calls, sounding like he’s behind something. He staggers into the hot box of the kitchen, under the weight of what seems to be an entire field of flowers. ‘Did you order apeony wall?’

Lauren

I hate Past Me who didn’t try and go back to sleep at five.

I’m crashing so hard right now. It hurts to blink, like I’ve accidentally used a sandpit as eyedrops. Woody shrieks across the living room and ripples of fury unfurl through my body.

Stupid Past Me, thinking weeping in the kitchen was a better idea than sleeping.

Stupid Past Me for thinking it was a good idea to have a baby.

Stupid Past Me for thinking I’d be a good mother.

Stupid Past Me for marrying my stupid fucking husband.

Woody shrieks again, this time in pain. In the time I dared take a long blink, he’s toppled over from where he’d been cruising along the coffee table.

‘Shit.’ I rush over and his little hands reach for me as I scoop him up. I feel this deep, nourishing thrill at being so needed, and then instantly suffocated by it too. ‘You’re OK, buddy,’ I tell him. ‘Did you go ouch? Poor thing.’ He wipes snot onto my shoulder as his cries subside. ‘You know?’ I say, switching out of Motherese into an adult voice. ‘If you were having your morning nap right now, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself, would you? Have you considered that, Woody? Napping when you’re supposed to?’

Recovered, he grunts and twists out of my arms. I release him and watch as he heads straight back to cruising along the coffee table again. I lower my tired body to the carpet so I can catch him when he inevitably topples. ‘You know what else?’

I ask him in my adult voice as he grabs for my mug of tea. I swipe it out of reach even though it’s cold by now. Tea isalways cold these days. ‘Daddy’s supposed to be taking you this morning, isn’t he? I’m supposed to be havinga little break. But where is Daddy? He needed a poo, didn’t he. He needed another epic shit.’

Woody turns back and cackles like I’ve told a joke and I check the time on my phone. 8.05am. Tristan ‘quickly needed the bathroom’ over half an hour ago. Every morning, I’m surprised he’s got any shit left to shit out when he so thoroughly empties himself when he’s supposed to be helping with Woody. It’s also surprising how these indulgently long shits aren’t necessary on the days he’s in the office, as I can’t imagine his boss allowing him to leave an important meeting for a 30-minute dump. It’s also weird how BBC Sport and Reddit have such a laxative effect on Tristan and therefore need to be read while on the toilet, you know, for medical reasons. A familiar pulse of rage speeds up in my heart. I’m supposed to get some time to myself this morning as I’m taking Woody all day while he gets to watch the tennis. They talk so much about weaponised incompetence in men, but I swear weaponisedincontinenceis the bigger feminist issue.

‘I can’t believe you’re making me feel guilty for having an actual shit,’ Tristan said, aghast, when I tried bringing this up before. ‘What do you want me to do, Lauren? Crap my pants in the name of equality? A literal dirty protest for feminism?’

He made it seem so unreasonable that I apologised. I even wondered, briefly, if I was abusive? I mean, who doesn’t let their husband go to the toilet when they need it? It’s just... well . . . I have to shit too. And, when I’m alone with Woody all day, I can’t look at memes as I do so. In fact, I have to restrain Woody in the BabyBjörn chair and sing ‘Blink Blink LittleGreen Frog’ manically to him, all while defecating. Or I give myself stomach cramps holding it in until Woody naps, which only lasts twenty minutes anyway. Those are my options. A private poo while the baby sleeps, or crying into a cup of tea on the sofa. Pick your luxury,Mama.Choice feminism rules!

Oh God, I’m being unhappy again, aren’t I?

Why am I so determinedly unhappy, all the time? When I’m supposed to be enjoyingevery precious moment, that goes so quickly, they grow up so fast, you’ll miss it when it’s over.

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