And Baby Makes Two

Chapter Two (part two) - The List

I squeeze passed the pram that fills the blood-red foyer at my front doorway. The pram looks so clean and new and ready to go with its little carry-cot car-seat balancing on top of the frame that will one day - in the far-distant future - transform into a pushchair. In fact the whole of my flat is filled with new furniture, new cushions, new bedding, new lights and fitments. I moved in here from the other side of London twelve weeks into my pregnancy and, with no furniture to my name, spent the next three weeks making trips to Ikea to buy a laminate antique-pine changing-table, cot, bedside table, sofabed, leather reclining chair and footstool (I justified this as necessary for posture when heavily pregnant and breast-feeding), new towels, cute little dragon motif cot-bumper and bed linen, a few vanilla-scented candles - you get the picture. I love Ikea and, despite having to load the heavy ‘pre-packed’ furniture into my little Golf, and then unload all of it down the steps into my basement flat all by myself, I had achieved my aim of creating a cosy, snug little womb for me and my baby.

It is a well-know fact that Stoke Newington has the densist population of babies in one square mile, in the whole of Europe. This means lots of baby-friendly pubs, restaurants and cafes; a great park, beautiful baby-good shops, butcher, baker..., fishmonger, oh...and the all-important organic supermarket – not that I had considered the importance of this when I made my move from residential-never-know-the-names-of-your next-door-neighbours, Balham. I had done good, now I just needed to meet some of these babies, or more critically, their mothers.

I lumber up the nine steps to ground level. Yes, I have begun counting them as they seem to multiply with each climb. As I cross the Common on my way to Church Street for a bit of a window shop I sneakily look around for Tasha and try and imagine which house might be hers. She had not been at yoga last week, although Flea had - whilst in labour I might add (which I found both alarming and awesome, although wondered if it had been necessary to be so.....public). She wasn’t mooing or anything like you see in Holby City, she just spent most of her time on all-fours and breathed very deeply.
I guess she’s had it by now. I wonder if Tasha has?

Although I recall Tasha saying she had builders in during her outburst at yoga I can’t see any sign of building work taking place on any of the houses surrounding the Common. Dolefully I carry on up to Church Street. As I make my way along the pavement, glancing in the shop windows along the way, I dodge what seems like a puschair every other person. They come in all shapes and sizes. I have been puschair-spotting now for some months so I feel sufficiently up-to-speed on the three-wheeler vs the four-wheeler argument, as well as the ‘to have a carry-cot or not to have a carry-cot.’ And finally, facing front or rear?
The puchchair drivers appear either oblivious of non-pram pushers, or all follow the bus-driver principle of might is right. They don’t budge off their path but almost aim for you, daring you to remain in their path so they can try out their all-terrain tyres as they steamroller over your unsuspecting body. Admittedly as I’ve grown bigger in the stomach department the aggression has subsided a touch. Now, as I haul myself out of the way, I am met with a knowing smile which sometimes carries an air of relief in the eyes of those with older babies.

“It’s Zoe isn’t it?” a whisper of wind breezes past my ear and I swing around to find Flea, complete with baby-in-sling, resting her eyes upon me like a wise and contented prophet.
“Yes it is... I mean I am... I’m Zoe, your Flea right?”
“Yes” she breathe-smiles back at me, “How are you getting on?”.
Her eyes greet mine like I am an old friend, much-loved and too-seldom seen.
“Oh fine. You know, waiting to pop!”
“Yes” she breathe-smiles again.
“So, you’ve popped then!” I say, instantly regretting my choice of words; wishing I had sounded more solemn, or just less flippant.
“Yes” she laughs. “After I left yoga I returned home and Tom and I – he’s my partner – did some chanting which seemed to work as it did bring the contractions on much stronger. Then, with the help of some Cramp Bark and other oils I reached ten centimeters and gave birth to Margery in water. It all went very smoothly really, I was very pleased to be lucky enough not to have any complications.” Her smile was so serene and it occurred to me that she only gave birth eight days ago.
“Should you be out already?” I quiz her. She smiles with her eyes whilst giving an understanding and reassuring half-laugh.
“Yes. I bathed in camomile tea as much as I could for the days after which really helped the healing process along. I thoroughly recommend it if you get the chance. Stock up though as I got through two packets in four days! The tea bags are expensive but really worth it.”

I felt I had been endowed with a great secret, brought down through generations from the ancient world. Those who knew of the secret were the select few; told only by word-of-mouth, and in-turn would be responsible for its continued protection and instruction. I imagined myself holding a vessel akin to the Holy Grail; while pregnant women awaited the one truth to bring them back from the agony of labour and birth. It was I who would unlock the treasure and set them back on their path to recovery. Flea’s work was done, I must now carry the gauntlet...

“Anyway, the reason I wanted to catch up with you was to give you the addresses of some of the girls who have been going to yoga. I don’t know if you remember Monica but she has been collecting names and addresses whenever she sees people out, and distributing them to everyone else. She’s very organised, I wouldn’t have thought to do it”, admits Flea, “Anyway, I took one for you as I often see you out walking and she never has.” Flea hands me the list of names, numbers and addresses.

“Thank you so much! I had no idea a list was going around, that’s so kind!” I felt like I gushed but I was so relieved.
“That’s quite alright. I was relieved myself. I’ve wanted to meet other women having babies but never got around to introducing myself.”

I stand clutching the piece of A4 tightly to my chest and then realise I haven’t even asked about her baby. What was its name... Margery.
“So, how is Margery, can I see her?”

Tucked away in folds of navy organic cotton slept Margery, like a little doormouse. She had inherited her mother’s red hair, but oh so fine the hair was more like fur on an almost bare animal.
“She is gorgeous” I said, and surprisingly I meant it! Babies wash over me a little and I feel awkward when required to say something nice when acknowledging one.
Flea thanks me and we continue to gaze at the little creature tucked away. Breaking the silence Flea pipes up,
“I heard Tasha had a little girl the day after me, have you seen her?”.
“No” I reply wondering how she could know so much... Just as I am about to ask if she would like to go for a coffee Flea’s face fills with alarm,
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry I have to get on. We are having a welcoming ritual in our garden this afternoon for Margery, and to bury the placenta, I was only supposed to be popping out to get some herbs from Fresh & Wild. So nice to meet you. If I don’t see you before good luck with the birth!”
As quick as the wind she flies over the road and through the doors of Fresh & Wild.
In that moment, as I watch her disappear into the strange shop I had never dared tread, I love her. To me she is a wise and knowledgable prophet.
Collecting my thoughts, with list in hand and camomile tea on my brain I skip on down the street.

Labels: breath-speak, camomile tea, Holy Grail

posted by Rebecca Valentine at 8:35 am