Page 39 of So Thrilled For You

‘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 mybaby(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 Istillwasn’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. Themy-wife-is-malfunctioninglook. The slight disgust. Thethis-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.

‘Lauren, 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 howto 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’.

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