Page 63 of Special Delivery
On cue, Maeve laughed delightedly. The woman had a point.
Three mums were already there when she arrived and they eagerly made space for her and Maeve among the melee of prams. ‘So good to see you!’ they chorused as Poppy sat down and plonked Maeve on her lap. They sounded similarly starved of a social life.
As more mothers arrived, Poppy found herself breathless from chatting, surprised at how much she had to say. It was a relief to talk about the crazy things she regularly googled during night feeds (namely:is a three-month regression a thing;is a four-month regression a thing;is a five-month regression a thing).
At one point, a couple of women started squealing with laughter about a husband gaffer-taping bottles to his chest to convince his son to drink formula. As the group laughed, Poppy hugged Maeve tighter, that familiar twinge of otherness clouding her vision. It wasn’t shame, but it was a little bit of shame, and it wasn’t anger, though it was a little bit of that, and it wasn’t sadness, though there was a tiny bit of that rolled in too. It was a wistful alienation. She’d never be able to join in these conversations.
Suddenly one of the mums spoke above the group. ‘Sorry, April. We should stop with our boring husband chat.’
‘De nada, de nada,’ replied April, who Poppy recognised from the first mother’s group catch up. She had a ginger bob and the most dazzling emerald eyes. April waved her hands in a ‘carry on’ gesture. ‘Being a single mum, I love hearing about how husbands add minimal value. Makes me feel so much better about my life choices.’
‘Wait,’ gasped Poppy. ‘You’re a single mum?’
April nodded. ‘Correct.’
‘But you’re so …’ Poppy was momentarily lost for words. ‘Clean!’ she said finally. She realised she sounded like a lunatic, but this woman had glossy hair and shining eyes and an adorable baby who looked chubby and healthy and content. She looked like a woman on top of things. She did not fit Poppy’s mental picture of the single mum brigade.
April shrugged. ‘I did shower yesterday … I think.’
The other women looked on blankly, apparently bamboozled by the exchange.
Poppy backtracked. ‘I only say that because I’m a single mum too and I’m a hot mess. I’m a hot, steaming, sweaty mess, despite living in pretty much the coldest town in Australia. Look at me!’ She lifted her arm to reveal the crusted-on Weet-Bix on her jumper that she’d only noticed when parking the car. ‘I’m barely fit to be seen in public!’
The other women at the table laughed generously and Poppy felt a lightness she hadn’t known in ages. No-one seemed scandalised, no-one seemed pruriently intrigued. Instead there was casual surprise and a rapid pivot to the next topic: when to start weaning on to cow’s milk (answer: ages away).
Over the stories of exploding formula bottles and prince-ling babies refusing anything but freshly expressed breastmilk, April nudged Poppy. ‘Should we start a single mums’ club? Badass mums living in sin?’
Poppy glowed. ‘Sign me up. I’ll order the t-shirts.’
‘Cool, I’ll bring the beers,’ said April. She hoisted her son onto her lap and pushed a teething ring into his mouth. ‘So, you single by choice … or not?’
‘Cutting straight to the chase!’ Poppy said with a laugh.
‘Would’ve got there eventually.’ April shrugged. ‘I already know you pushed a baby out your vag, so we’re past the smalltalk stage.’
‘True,’ Poppy conceded. She paused to consider April’s question. It had been her choice to break it off with Patrick but he had forced her hand. ‘A bit of both, I guess.’
‘Same,’ April said. ‘I couldn’t meet the right person and I was always going to have to do IVF to have a baby, so I decided why wait? IVF is fucking expensive, but I tell you what’s moreexpensive: my ex-girlfriend. She was obsessed with home decorating. Now I get to eat my solo girl-dinners, I don’t have random West Elm orders bleeding my bank account dry and I still get to have a baby. It’s a win-win-win.’
‘That’s brave,’ remarked Poppy.
‘Woman, please. I’m not brave. I’m so scared of commitment, I decided to have a lab baby.’
Poppy laughed.
‘Are you going okay?’ asked April.
‘We have our moments,’ replied Poppy automatically, ‘but we’re fine.’ It was what she told anyone who asked.
‘I bet you say that to every random in the street,’ said April. ‘My line is:The days go slowly, but the weeks just fly. Like, ugh, am I a Hallmark card? Would I actually ever say that? Obviously not. But random old women in the supermarket want to know how I’m going, so that’s the line I feed them. Hallmark quotes are like crack for the over-sixties.’ She took a sip from her latte and looked Poppy directly in the eye. ‘Single mother to single mother, how are you actually going?’
‘I’m okay,’ insisted Poppy. ‘I mean, I am okay at this very specific point in time. Don’t ask me about yesterday when the dryer blew up and I cried, and don’t ask me what I’m going to do if I can’t find a job before my maternity leave payments run out, but at this particular moment, sitting in an awesome art-filled cafe with a hot soy cappuccino in front of me, I can almost confidently say I am okay. Almost.’
‘Good for you,’ said April. ‘If it makes you feel better, last week my bedroom light blew and I still haven’t replaced it. I just use the light from my phone like a true Millennial.’
Poppy smiled. ‘Areyougoing okay?’
April smiled back. ‘I eat cheese and Sakatas for dinner and my iPhone fills any partner-shaped voids in my life. My son is alive and thriving, and I love him so much it makes my heart hurt. I am okay too.’
