Confessions of a Bad Mother (12 page)

Number Two swims through its Nuchal Fold scan and blood test, and
somersaults through the twenty-week scan. As before, we’ve decided not to
know the gender, but go for the Mystery Parcel option.

‘Actually it’s our policy not to reveal the sex,’
explains the radiographer. ‘For one thing, even at twenty weeks you can
get it wrong.’

‘And some people … certain – cultures –
don’t want certain sexes. For example, girls.’

‘Er, well, yes.’

As spring turns to summer, I put on the same two bits of maternity wear
as the year before, a black top and bright orange skirt, so if I go into labour
while I’m out, I’ll be easy to find in a crowd. At the cinema one
evening, we’re greeted by friends we haven’t seen for a year.

‘Haven’t you had that baby yet? Surely it must be ready by
now
!’

But as Peter’s father used to say, Laughing leads to Crying.

My mother says solemnly one evening: ‘I’ve been observing
Lawrence, and he doesn’t respond to music.’

‘What kind of music? Jazz? Classical? Deep House?’

‘I sang to him, and he didn’t respond. I think you should
get his hearing tested. Properly.’

‘He’s fine,’ I say. ‘He’s
fine
.’

She goes back home, and I dissolve into a puddle of worry.

‘She thinks he’s deaf! What are we going to do?!’
‘I’m sure he isn’t.’

‘He just doesn’t respond to
her
.’

‘Well nor do you,’ says Peter. ‘Maybe it runs in the
family. Still, isn’t he supposed to have his ears tested about now
anyway?’

Lawrence is the right age, eight months, yet the invitation from the
health visitor hasn’t come. To appease my mother, and because I secretly
fear she might be right – a
truly
horrendous possibility – I
ring the Audiology Department of the local NHS Trust.

A week later we are seen. After a two-hour wait, during which Lawrence
gets more and more bored and restless, and I get more and more tense and
anxious, we go in. The doctor is some kind of senior paediatrician, with a
nurse. She tells me to sit Lawrence on my lap, and says: ‘He’s not
sitting up very well, is he?’

‘He’s – well, he’s – I don’t
know,’ I say weakly. I have a feeling this is not going to go well.

I am right. The nurse waves a couple of building blocks at him, while
the doctor goes behind us and claps her hands. Lawrence decides he’s more
interested in the blocks. Even after several goes, he shows no inclination to
turn round.

‘You do realize,’ says the doctor, ‘that this child is
Developmentally Delayed
.’ And she writes it down. So
that’s
why he didn’t turn round, I realize now; he knew she
was a Horrid Lady.

At that moment, however, I can’t tell you what happens because the
blood drains out of my head and I start to cry. Even as I carry him to the car
– my bright, bouncing, alert little boy – I know she is wrong.
I’m almost more angry with myself than with her, for not telling her
where to shove her pencil. And her fucking building blocks. From the moment we
arrived she had a bitter, resentful look on her face. Did I resemble the woman
who’d stolen her husband? The mother who’d never cuddled her? Did
she just not like my face? I don’t like it myself that much, but still: a
person has rights. Last week, a bit of work came in, and I rang up to try and
get an alternative time. That’s it! I’m being punished for Putting
My Career First. I’ve been
branded
. As far as she’s
concerned, Lawrence is Deaf and Stupid, and I am Evil.

As soon as I get back I ring Peter, who struggles to follow my
account.

‘Sh-sh-she s-s-s-said h-h-he (sob, splutter, sob).’

‘I can’t – what? You poor thing! Calm down. Of course
he’s not deaf. Of course he’s not. I’ll see you tonight.
Everything’ll be fine, I promise.’

How? Our child has been tested and
failed
. It’s on his
record
. So what if this woman would have sacked the staff of Colditz for
being too soft. She has the final say. And worst of all, I initiated it! If I
hadn’t listened to
my mother
, if I’d just gone to Carol the
Health Visitor, who is
nice
, it wouldn’t have happened. I pour my
heart out to Maureen, the neighbours, the plumber, the man in the Turkish
supermarket and every other person I meet.

Maureen dismisses the whole thing with a gentle shake of her head. Not
prone to displays of outrage, she gives me to understand that such notes are
not worth the official paper they’re stamped upon. Nonetheless I spend
the next week in a state of volatile gloom. How can I have another baby when
things are going as badly as this?

I tell my neighbour, Mira, who’s as far away from anyone’s
idea of a Bad Mother as it is possible to get. Well, I never hear her
shouting.

‘Oh, mine failed that thing too,’ she says airily.
‘Lots of them do.’

‘
Really?!
’ I have to stop myself from crumpling at
the knees and wiping my eyes on her skirt.

‘Of course! It’s totally unscientific.’

I start to feel better. Then I bump into Kath, whose son Roman is
exactly Lawrence’s age.

‘It’s total bollocks,’ she says firmly.

‘Why do they do it then?’

‘Oh, it’s something to tick off in that stupid red book.
Sweep it from your mind. Oh, and while you’re at it, throw out all your
books.’

‘My
books
???!’

‘Your
baby
books. They’re just full of things to make
you worry. A friend told me to get rid of mine, and I’ve never looked
back.’

I return home with renewed purpose. Lawrence isn’t alone! Others
‘fail’ too! Intelligent ones! Ones with Better Parents than us.
Ones who get into Good Schools. Ones who – hang on: if The System is
relying on something so patently unscientific, as Mira puts it, how can its
credibility remain unchallenged? How can we believe in It? Is it possible that
we could – should – put more faith in ourselves? The thrilling
– and terrifying – prospect presents itself:
we might know
something
. We might even, at times,
know more than It
.

I call Betsy, the one who was able to go to the loo because we gave her
a mobile to hang from her baby’s cot. He’s seven now.

‘How’re you going, Bets?’

‘Fine. I’m pregnant.’

‘Wow! So that’s – three!’

‘Four.’

‘By the way … Did yours pass their Distraction
Test?’

‘Their what? I dunno. I can’t remember.’

‘What?!
Really
?’ God, she’s cool.

‘Oh, I’m terrible. I
never
fill out that stupid red
book. And you know what? When the health visitor comes—’

‘What?’

‘I hide.’

‘You what?’

‘Sure! I hide behind the curtains, and the kids tell me when
she’s gone.’

I put Lawrence in the playpen with his Aston Martin and get down the
baby books. Into a box I put
What to
Expect When You’re
Expecting
, with its bumper load of things to worry about in each trimester,
What to Expect
The First Year
, with its generous helping of
things to fail at in each month of development, the two big, floppy
breastfeeding books by Sheila Kitzinger, and the pristine
Baby and Toddler
Meal Planner
by Annabel Karmel, a present from my mother, who fed us out of
jars.

I keep only one, the
Book of Child Care
by Dr Hugh Jolly, as it
says: ‘
The “experts” should not be regarded as
infallible; It is up to you to be selective about other people’s
advice
… Make decisions based on your own instincts.
’
Keep it? I’ll bloody frame it.

As I get bigger, it’s becoming much harder to pick Lawrence up,
and of course there is the decision we made to live in a house composed almost
entirely of stairs.

‘I’m sure by the time the second one’s born,
he’ll be able to walk,’ I say to anyone who visits. Strangely, they
all look sceptical. In fact, he does start – but recreationally, like
people who take their car out on Sundays for a spin. He hasn’t actually
got it in mind to go anywhere. And somehow I have got being
able
to walk
confused with
wanting
to. I try to get him to increase his distances, to
practise as much as possible before the big day, but time is not on our side.
He still likes to be picked up as much as usual, and of course, to be carried
up to bed. At least being eight months gone gets me out of this. Peter agrees
to help me even further by not going away for work – or out at all
– for the next five years.

Peter and I decide to start Lawrence on full days at Maureen’s a
bit before that, so he doesn’t feel displaced by the new one. Again, I go
on to Peter about how guilty I feel. And again, I am incredibly grateful for
the help. In fact, without Maureen in the frame we wouldn’t have
considered having the other one so soon.

On 4 November, our agreed date – to avoid Bonfire Night –
Peter and I arrive at the hospital.

‘We’re really sorry,’ says a nurse. ‘Only
there’s a woman in theatre, and she’s haemorrhaging, so …
could you come back tomorrow? We’re awfully sorry.’

‘You mean someone’s bleeding to death in my slot?
Cheek!’ We reassure her that we do
not
mind, and go for
coffee.

‘What shall we do?’

‘We’ve got an extra day!’

‘Ooh, like free time on the meter.’

We go and see
The Truman Show
, which seems appropriate, as Truman
is a kind of permanent baby who has never left the womb. When he does try to
escape, he finds his whole world is a set.

‘It’s a great idea,’ I say. ‘If the children
show signs of trying to be independent too early, we could—’

‘What, paint a sign saying “Squat” on the garden
shed?’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Look, let’s just get this one born, shall we?’

We return the next day, 5 November. Baby 2 is born to the same opera
duet, in the same sociable atmosphere. In an exact replay, Peter moves down to
where the action is and gasps, ‘It’s a girl!’

She is called Lydia. There are no breathing problems, and she comes
upstairs with me, where a friendly midwife offers me my own room.

‘You back again already?’

‘I like the view.’

‘Put your stuff in there. You get your own loo.’

‘Great! Aren’t you supposed to pay or something?’

‘They’re for twins and multiples, but we haven’t got
any. You get a spare bed as well.’

‘Can I have friends to stay?’

‘Yeah, if you keep fairly quiet.’

I’ve got my own sink, as well as the loo, and a spare bed for the
beer and takeaways which Peter will bring later. I unload my nappies, chocolate
and magazines. From the window, I can see some of the lives I didn’t
lead. Across the road is RADA, where my best friend Tilly and I went to giggle
at Anton Lesser when he was a student and we were silly fourteen-year-olds. She
became an actor, I didn’t. Just behind us is UCL, where my sister went to
university; I didn’t. Right at the end is the building where my father
lived; on his sixtieth birthday he urged us to have children. But he died two
years later, and never knew that we’d listened. Now here I am: a mother
of two, with a life that wasn’t on the list.

Lydia is asleep in the plastic wheely cot beside me. I listen to the
distant fireworks for a while, then fall asleep. Tomorrow, Peter is bringing
Lawrence.

But I’m dreading seeing him. I feel as though by having another
baby, I’ve been unfaithful. I’m convinced I’ve betrayed him.
Why did no one warn me about this? I lie in my nicely appointed room, gazing
over the rooftops, feeling a total shit.

The next day, Peter brings him. I’m expecting a huge bollocking:
‘
How could you?!
’ Then I remember he can’t speak.

‘Here’s your new baby sister,’ says Peter.

He does his fourteen-month-old drunk-style toddle, holding onto the
seats of chairs, over to the bed, and peers at her, an unfamiliar expression on
his face. Then he puts his head very gently on her tummy.

That’s the sibling rivalry issue solved, then.

Peter would make a good mule. His look of clean-cut, unimpeachable
integrity belies the fact that his Boots carrier contains two chicken jalfrezis
and a large Budvar. We sit on the beds, have supper and talk.

The day we bring Lydia home, Karen the midwife comes with us to
‘help her settle in’, i.e. mitigate the shock of being a Family of
Four.

‘Whatever happens,’ I say to Peter, ‘we are not
getting a people mover.’ He agrees, but transport is an Issue.

At first, I wheel Lawrence in the buggy, to Maureen’s, the shops
and so on, with Lydia in the sling. We have a new buggy to replace the pram
– well not exactly new; Peter found it in the street. But it’s a
Chicco, a good brand, and with the mould scrubbed off, looks fine. But Lydia,
who’s having no trouble feeding, gets bigger. And heavier.

‘I should be pleased, I know, because the feeding’s so much
easier than last time. But …’ I unwrap her and flop into a
chair.

‘There’s nothing for it,’ says Peter. ‘We have
to—’

‘Don’t say it!’

‘Yes! We have to get a Double Buggy.’

The double buggy, as I know from my prenatal on-street observation, is
the foot-powered equivalent of the Humvee. It takes up whole pavements, forcing
pedestrians to leap into the traffic. It brings out the belligerence in people.
It should have its own licence.

I go round to Mira’s for a test drive. She has the
forward-and-back model, designed for combined
upright-toddler-and-baby-sleepage. It’s much narrower, but the baby goes
behind, putting the much bigger weight at the front. Trying to get it up a kerb
is like pushing a small van.

‘Awful, isn’t it?’ She’s right. You need the
upper-arm strength of a docker. And even then you’re still in the road,
struggling, while lorries skid round you.