And Baby Makes Two

Chapter Three - In for a Penny

I have now been a mother for 3 whole weeks. The first 24 hours of motherhood went something like this:
- The doctor is called to practice his cross-stitch on my bits. He has a GCSE in needlework.
- I (along with my newborn whom I have named Joshua), am wheeled to the maternity ward where seal-lions have turned to cattle and we are all penned in side-by-side like dairy cows ready for milking.
- Nancy makes all relevant calls to The List, while I keep peeking under the baby grow marvelling at legs, arms, fingers, knees, finger nails...Nancy goes home for some sleep.
- Parents arrive with flowers, grapes, toys and clothes for the baby.
- Claire returns white as a sheet. A client has called and needs me to quote on a massive job. “She knows I have just given birth but if I don’t quote now it will have to go elsewhere.” It is the chameleon job, of course.
- Parrot-fashion, I paint by numbers. Like filling out a fantasy football coupon, I draw up a quote that throws caution to the wind. If I am to be forced to do this now then it will have to be worth it financially!
- Mercurial Nancy whisks it away and sends it to the stars (for all I care).
- Rumours circulate that a food trolley has made an official visit at the ward gate, but as no-one had gotten out of bed and collected their food the trolley pixie had marched off in a jobs-worth exclamation mark.
- Different shaped medical staff arrive to check if Josh can somersault, back-flip and grasp when dropped from a great height, then leave - apparently satisfied.
- We are discharged.

The whole world had visited my little boy since then. Proud Grandparents, excited uncles and aunts, wonderstruck friends and their boyfriends, even a dog. I had braved the outside world only once, to buy some milk and stretch my legs, leaving my tiny, fragile, vulnerable, precious baby with my dearest friend for ten minutes. MY GOD WHAT WAS I THINKING?

Aside from the utter impractability of squeezing a whole days worth of chores into a mere 24 hours, I also had to work! Oh yes, as I played ‘fantasy football’ quoting outlandish figures for models, flights, hotels, producers, casting directors and, oh what the hell, throw in a helicopter too...I didn’t think for a moment they would actually go for it, let alone get ‘sign-off’ within the hour and send a purchase order so we could start production straight away – that kind of decision-making and action was unheard of in advertising. Unless of course, you are me; here, now. Of course.

So, in-between breastfeeding (every thirty minutes each breast), boil washing anything that could be worn (Ode to the vintage top days..), bathing my sore bits in camomile tea, oh yes and eating: note to self, must remember to eat – I was also booking models, co-ordinating flights to Dublin, discussing appropriate shades of grey tie for the ‘businessman’ model, and promising...everyone, that we were all on schedule, honest.

It was a wonder I was able to produce any milk at all over the past week, but indeed I could – by the bucket load. As hungry a baby as Josh is it would require Dumbo to empty these milkmaid jugs, and they hurt! Like two balls of iron itching to burst forth from the Mothership and capsize an Armada or two. I am impelled to massage along the milk ducts to keep the milk flowing and avoid painful blockages but this has the not-so-charming effect of squirting a thin white line of milk ten feet across the room. My beautiful ibook now no longer the chic notebook of the professional, but more the defecated Nelson’s column of my front room.

Despite being unable to walk with knees any closer than 30 cms, cabin fever has finally got the better of me. I need to get out. It takes an hour and fifty three minutes to leave the house. It is an expedition. Muslin, nappies, wipes, toy thing, little pots of olive oil rub, cotton wool, distilled water, eye drops, nasal drops, blanket, hat, socks, shoes. Oh God, and then there is my stuff. Oh bugger, sunnies, hat, industrial strength sanitary towels...Right. Pram:baby carrier. Pram:baby carrier? I um and ah for too long. Both. Now, where did I put my keys...

I had underestimated my injuries. Walking any distance at all equals pain and a very real risk of my insides falling out. I praise myself for bringing the pram along – the zimmer-frame of the new mother. Edging along Church Street I sneak looks at little Josh sleeping snuggled in my chest. His tiny snub nose is so edible and cupid’s bow mouth so perfectly red like a rose bud. With his golden skin and blonde fur-like hair he could be mistaken for the son of Ariadne. I just can’t believe he’s mine, that I get to keep him! I feel like the lucky girl at school chosen to look after the classroom rabbit over the holidays, but all the while knowing I must return him back to his rightful owners when term time begins. But I don’t, he is for keeps! I grin broadly.

Acutely aware of my finite down time while Josh sleeps I fervently look around for a small cafe to scurry into in the vain hope that I might read a page or two of my book, have a coffee and remember a former life-before-sleep-deprivation. Suddenly as if in a mirage the organic supermarket looms up from across the street beckoning me in. I had not yet mustered the courage to enter the temple of wholesome food. All that unwrapped fruit and loose lentils scared me somehow causing me to run along to the familiar bright lights of Costcutter to buy my white sugar and plastic-wrapped apples. But, NO! my inner-self shouts, I am a grown-up now and my child needs uncontaminated food. As I loiter on the brink of a pesticide revolution the plate-glass doors of Planet Organic swing open like outstretched arms and I catch a glimpse of a dalmation print figure passing by the door in a less than organic fashion. Curiosity nips at my heels and I decide to cross over the road to get a better look.

posted by Rebecca Valentine at 10:19 pm