The Baby Trail
Hello, I’m Emma. I
used to be a normal, happy, level-headed person. I had a great
husband, lovely friends, a job I enjoyed and a very lively social
life - until I decided to have a baby and turned into Kathy Bates
in Misery.
It all began so innocently. I had it all planned out: come off the pill in
December, have sex, be pregnant by January, have the baby in September, get a personal trainer in for November and have my figure back and the baby into a nice routine by Christmas so I could sashay around the festive parties looking like Liz Hurley after her baby. Not that I am for a minute comparing my self to
Liz, Elle or Catherine Zeta Jones for that matter.
In fact I have been told I am the image of … Sonia (the little redhead that sang those annoying pop songs for Stock Aitken Waterman), Fergie (I
starved myself for weeks after that) and Julianne Moore. My best friend Lucy told me I look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but that’s what best friends do – lie to make you feel better.
Anyway, let’s
rewind to the beginning, when I was still relatively sane …
Chapter 1
My New Year’s
resolution two years ago was to get pregnant. Top result I
thought, as the previous year I had given up drink forever after
dislocating my shoulder in a bar dive on New Year’s Eve
– well, New Year’s Day at six am to be precise. I
lasted a week. So I thought that this resolution would be a lot
more realistic and should be a piece of cake to achieve –
off the pill, some sex and Bob’s your uncle.
It was high time I had a
baby. I was thirty-three and although I may have felt - and truth
be told, behaved - like I was twenty-five, it was time to knuckle
down and get up the duff. I told James later that night when he
came home from work. He seemed pleased - if a little surprised
that I was feeling broody, as I had rough-handled his nephew over
the Christmas holidays. I reminded him that little Thomas had
turned the TV off at a key moment in The Sound of Music
– the scene in the cemetery when the Nazis are chasing the
Von Trapps - I mean, come on, it’s a life or death
situation. And I had merely nudged him gently aside. It
wasn’t my fault if the child had no balance and fell down
and hit his head on the video recorder.
"That’s not how
Imogen saw it," said James
"Well Imogen is highly
strung, uptight and neurotic," I said smiling sweetly at
James – who is very handsome by the way.
When I first introduced him
to my family I could see they were surprised - shocked even.
Before James, I had gone for a guy I thought I could save; you
know - the tortured artist, unshaven, grubby and dirt poor. But
then I met James and he saved me - from myself, mostly.
He is tall, has chocolate
brown hair, lovely brown eyes and a killer smile. His nose is a
bit big, but it looks good on a man. It did worry me a bit
though. What if we had a daughter and she inherited it? Mind you,
they could do wonders with surgery.
James’s sister-in-law,
Imogen, was a nightmare and never liked me. She had wanted James
to marry an English rose, some boring horsy public school chick
just like her, who would sit around in twin sets and pearls
talking about ponies, gymkhanas and ‘maaahvellous’
recipes she had tried. She was horrified when James produced me -
Irish, passionate about everything, opinionated and, worst of
all, ginger.
To be honest I don’t
think James’s parents – Mr and Mrs Hamilton - were too
thrilled about me either. They had hoped that James would only
spend a year in Ireland, training the Leinster rugby squad, but
instead he met me and decided to stay for good.
However, after three years
of me studiously scraping my hair back into velvet bows and
donning ‘respectable clothes’ when we went over to see
them, they had come around. I also held my tongue – unusual
for me – when Mr Hamilton talked about ridding England of
its immigrants.
"Send the lot of them
home and let us get on with it. Coming over here, sponging off
our government, taking our jobs and then whinging about it. Send
them all back I say. That’ll stop the buggers."
I was going to point out
that two of my uncles and my brother were immigrants and ask if
he wanted me to bugger off right now or would it be alright if I
finished my apple crumble? But then I looked at James who was
shaking his head and mouthing "No" so I thought better
of it. Besides, daughter-in-law of the year, Imogen, had piped
up, "I so agree Jonathan, this country is just not the same
anymore."
Anyway, James thought
Imogen was "nice" and refused to criticise her out of
loyalty to his brother Henry. There were only the two of them in
the family, so it was important that they got on. Henry
christened me Paddy (better than Spud, but still not terribly
endearing) on our first meeting. Despite this little hiccup we
actually got on quite well in an odd sort of way. He was obsessed
with horse racing and seemed to think that because I was Irish
that I was born and reared in stables - a bit like Jesus I
suppose if you think about it.
So he was always asking me
what I thought about horses and jockeys I’d never heard of.
I have the unfortunate habit of never admitting I know nothing
about a topic. Ask me any question, no matter how obscure, and
I’ll have a shot at answering it. So Henry and I had long
chats about horses, bloodlines, jockeys and trainers. We once had
an hour-long conversation about what it was about Dawn Run that
had captured the hearts of the racing public. Henry reckoned it
was her refusal to give in.
"She was an extremely
tough horse alright," I said nodding my head, praying he
wouldn’t ask me any direct questions about her career
history.
"Wasn’t
she?" said Henry, "That win in the Gold Cup when she
was headed between the last two fences and just managed to get
her head in front again on the run in, really summed up her
desire to win"
"I’ll never
forget it," I lied
"But what a tragic end
to a glittering career."
What did he mean tragedy?
Hadn’t he just said the stupid horse had won the race?
"Oh, it was desperate," I said shaking my head and
sighing.
"So brave of her to
try to repeat her earlier victory in the Grande Course de Haies
at Auteuil. A broken neck. What a way to go. She was definitely
one of the brightest lights to grace the National Hunt,"
said Henry, his eyes misting over as he recalled that tragic day.
"So sad," I
agreed, while thinking - come on Henry, get a grip it was a
bloody horse not a member of your family.
James jumped in to defend
his sister-in-law as I grumbled on about her being a witch.
"Imogen may be a
little overprotective but that’s only to be expected in
first time mothers. I’m sure you’ll be the same."
"James, I think it is
fair to say that I will never be anything like Imogen. I am not
boring, uptight or neurotic."
"No darling, you are
spontaneous and just a little insane’
"Better mad than
boring. I’ll make a brilliant mother though, won’t
I?"
"Yes darling you will.
Now shouldn’t we stop talking and get down to
baby-making?"
"Absofuckinglutely!"
A week later I phoned home
to tell my mother about our decision to have a baby.
"Hi Dad, it’s
me"
"Oh hi, how are
you?"
"Grand, you?"
"Grand. How’s
himself?"
"Fine. Any news?"
"Not really. Well,
your sister’s in the doghouse. Some poor eejit turned up
here on Friday night in a dinner suit with a big flower and a box
of chocolates to take her to a ball, but she was off at some
party in Cork. The poor fool was sitting here like a lemon while
we tried to call your sister. In the end your mother felt so
sorry for him she offered to go to the ball herself. That got rid
of him alright," said Dad as we both giggled.
"Oh, here’s
Barbara now. I’ll let her fill you in."
"See you, Dad."
"Hello"
"Hi Babs. What’s
going on?"
"You mean apart from
our mother losing the plot completely and accusing me of ruining
her life. God, I forgot about the stupid ball. What’s the
big deal? He’s a total nerd anyway. I only said yes because
he cornered me in the library and I couldn’t think of a good
excuse quickly enough."
"In the library? Were
you lost?"
"You’re
hilarious. I was actually trying to find Sarah so I could cog her
notes. Anyway, I went to Cork to a mad party and had a great
time. I would have had a shite time at that crappy ball."
"So you didn’t
forget"
"Well, OK not really.
But if you saw the state of him you’d understand."
"Bit mean,
though"
"Yeah, I know, I know.
I’ll go and hunt him out in the library tomorrow and
apologise."
"Careful, the library
twice in one week, bad for the image"
"I’ll wear a wig.
Oh Jesus, here’s Mum. I’m off before she starts
spraying me with holy water."
"Hi Mum" I said
trying to stifle giggles
"Funny is it? Funny -
to bring disgrace on your family? Some poor young lad all dickied
up with a beautiful corsage turns up at the door to take her to a
ball and she’s off gallivanting at some rave party in Cork.
Well the poor boy nearly died, as did we. We had to bring him in
and feed him stiff drinks. He was as red as a beetroot. I was
mortified myself and to make matters worse, it turns out he is
John and Eileen McGarry’s son." At this point my mother
paused for dramatic effect, but it was lost on me, I had no idea
who these people were.
"Who?"
"You know, John and
Eileen McGarry from the golf club and isn’t John the captain
this year so the whole place will be talking about what an
ignorant so-and-so we’ve raised. I’d say that boy will
never go outside his front door again. It’s a dangerous age
for boys you know – the percentage of suicides among boys
between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five is very high."
I decided to step in.
"Mum, relax. I’m
sure it’ll be fine. She’s going to apologise to
him."
"Pffff. Anyway, enough
about that young pup. How are you?"
"Great thanks.
Actually, I’ve decided to have a baby."
"What do you
mean?"
"I mean, I’ve
decided to have a baby. I’m going to get pregnant."
"Lord Emma, I hope you
haven’t broadcast this around."
"What do you mean
broadcast?"
"Well these things are
best kept private. Why does everyone nowadays feel they have to
tell the world their private business? I blame that Oprah
Winefrid myself."
"It’s
Winfrey"
"What?"
"Her name is …oh,
never mind. Just think, this time next year you’ll be a
granny."
"Could be."
"What?"
"It doesn’t
always happen overnight, you know, especially at your age.
It’s not always that straightforward Emma."
"Well thanks for all
your support. Hopefully at the grand old age of thirty-three my
ovaries haven’t totally shrivelled up."
"There is no need to
be dramatic. Just keep your business private and get on with
it."
"Fine, I will. I
better go now and hop on James before my biological clock
expires."
Your cycle is twenty-eight
days so you should ovulate (isn’t that just the most
cringe-making word, it sounds like something fish do) mid-way. So
on day fourteen, when James came home from work, I was waiting
for him.
Instead of greeting him
from my horizontal position on the couch, eating chocolate
biscuits in my pyjamas and Gap hoody, I was waiting for him in
the bedroom in my suspenders, which hadn’t been trotted out
since our honeymoon a year ago. I had lit scented candles and
left only a small lamp on in the corner of the room. My thighs
and stomach looked a lot better by candlelight...believe me.
James - stunned not to see
me on the couch - walked into the bedroom, sniffing the air
suspiciously. When he saw me in my suspenders he began to look
really worried.
"OK, what have you
done? You crashed the car didn’t you?"
"No I did not. I just
thought this would be a nice surprise for you. Make a nice
change."
James sat down on the bed
and took my hand in his.
"It’s alright
darling. The most important thing is that you weren’t
injured. Just tell me how bad the damage is."
"James! I did not
crash the car." I was getting frustrated now and the
suspender belt was digging into my waist. I had starved myself
for weeks before the wedding and that was a year and a lot of
meals ago. "I wanted to surprise you and inject some fun
into our midweek routine."
"Fine, but is there
anything you want to tell me? I promise no matter how bad it is I
won’t get annoyed."
"James!"
"Ah ha, I know. Your
parents have separated and your mother is moving in with
us?"
"No they have not.
What do mean my parents have separated? Do you think they might?
Why do you think that? They get on really well. What do you
mean?"
"Emma, I’m just
tying to figure out what you’ve done?"
"For goodness sake,
stop being so suspicious. I just felt like spicing things up a
bit. And besides, I’m ovulating." I had to admit it
before he cast any more aspersions on my parents’ marriage.
I thought they seemed happy enough. Granted they weren’t Mr
and Mrs Brady Bunch, but they got on alright.
James looked a bit taken
aback. "What?"
That’s the problem
with men who are brought up in all-male households and go to
single sex boarding schools – they tend to be not very
au-fait with the inner workings of the female of the species.
When we first moved in
together, James called from Tescos one night to see what I wanted
for dinner. I asked him for chicken tikka and a twelve pack of
Tampax Super as I had run out. He nearly passed out. He just
wasn’t that relaxed around feminine hygiene products. But as
my friend Jess said – it’s all about training. I was
working on him, slowly but surely.
"I’m ovulating -
you know popping eggs - so we need to go for it. It’s day
fourteen. So come on let’s get to it."
"Right, right, of
course, yes. Do we have time for foreplay or should I just shoot
from the hip as it were?" said James, laughing, as he
whipped off his tracksuit.
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