The Bad Mother's Pregnancy Read online

  Did a bit of maternity magazine browsing for pregnant lady fashion, but this only created an image crisis.

  I mean, don’t get me wrong. A nautical-striped navy jumper, loose khaki slacks and straw hat can look great on the right sort of person. My big sister Laura, for example, has always worn grown-up, nice young lady clothes.

  But co-ordinated sensible smartness just isn’t me.

  I’m a pub/festival/pint of Guinness sort of person. Any outfit that shies away from casual just highlights my inability to get food into my mouth without dropping bits.

  One of the reasons I like my job is because they let us wear jeans and t-shirts. My boss, Alan Bender, did my job interview wearing an actual cardigan, and no one in the office is fashionable. If I buy something from H&M, I get comments on how trendy I am.

  Brandi gave me some good money-saving advice, re maternity clothes.

  ‘You don’t need a nappy changing table,’ she said. ‘Change the baby on the floor, and use the thirty quid you save to buy stretchy jeans and jumpers from Primark/Peacocks/H&M. You always wear the same thing over and over when you’re pregnant, anyway. Cut out the charity shop run and just buy two outfits.’

  Followed Brandi’s advice, and am now the proud owner of elasticated maternity jeans and two oversized sweatshirts, the latter at 50% off in the sale. The sweatshirts did have some weird slogans on them: ‘Suck it’ and ‘Funky Clown’. But they do the job.

  Nick didn’t approve of my cheap, stretchy clothing, but he really needs to get over all this image stuff. You’d think, being ten years older than me, he would be wiser and less vain. But actually, he dresses younger than I do, believing men can ‘get away with it’.

  ‘You don’t look too bad,’ said Althea, when I showed her my new clothes on Facetime. ‘Sort of like, if a teenage boy got pregnant, that’s probably what he’d wear.’

  ‘I’m not going to get all fashion conscious now,’ I said. ‘I don’t have the money for a whole new wardrobe. I’ve got more pressing things to buy. A cot, for example. I’m told a baby needs one of those. I’ll only have to wear this teenage-boy stuff for a few months.’

  Althea laughed until camomile tea came out of her nostrils.

  ‘A few months!’ she snorted. ‘My tummy still looks pregnant, and Wolfgang is nearly three-months-old. I’m like a balloon with a very slow leak. Your tummy doesn’t just go when the baby comes. I reckon it’ll be a year before everything goes back how it was for me. And some bits will never be the same.’

  ‘But what about all those celebrities who have photo-shoots just after they’ve had a baby?’ I asked. ‘They always wear tight dresses and bikinis.’

  ‘Airbrushing,’ Althea declared. ‘And plastic surgery. There’s this thing called a c-tuck, it’s like a tummy tuck and C-section at the same time. Bloody awful, this expectation that women should forever look like children. The female body is beautiful in all its transformations.’

  Didn’t let on that I wouldn’t mind a bit of plastic surgery to get rid of my wobbly post-pregnancy tummy, but couldn’t ask too many questions about c-tucks, because Althea was getting suspicious.

  Althea is one of those lucky soles blessed with unshakable confidence. She loves every bit of her body, wobbles and all.

  Interestingly, it makes her extremely attractive to the opposite sex. I suppose men get fed up with women moaning about their bodies all the time.

  Monday 27th April

  149 days until I meet my little girl

  Second antenatal appointment in Great Oakley today.

  Nick came along this time.

  He was fresh from a Wizard of Oz audition, where he’d been trying for the part of Toto the dog.

  Nick doesn’t think he got the part because the casting team only let him perform for thirty seconds.

  When Nick and I arrived at the doctor’s surgery, we were given bad news – Caz has been written off long-term sick due to some kind of May Pole dancing accident.

  We had to see the other midwife instead – Eileen Bolin.

  Eileen sat bolt upright in her chair to receive us, her helmet of grey curls stiff and unmoving, a terse expression on her thin lips.

  The office curtains were closed and, although everything was clean, it sort of felt like there should be cobwebs everywhere.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Duffy,’ said Eileen, giving me a Dettol-scented handshake. ‘Sit down. Mr Duffy – you can wait outside. Better if mother and midwife talk alone.’

  ‘Oh he’s not my husband,’ I said. ‘Why buy the cow when you get the milk for free? Ha!’

  Eileen frowned at paper medical records. ‘I don’t know what Caroline has gone over with you – she never makes detailed notes. Have you talked about where you want to have the baby?’

  ‘Definitely in this country,’ said Nick, working up the courage to sit down. ‘Having it abroad would be way too much hassle.’

  ‘I was referring to home or hospital,’ said Eileen, glaring at Nick. ‘It really would be better if father waits outside.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Nick, springing to his feet. ‘Yes, I’m happy with that.’

  ‘We’re in Canary Wharf at the minute,’ I told Eileen, as Nick closed the door behind him. ‘I don’t really fancy having a baby by our big panoramic windows. So I suppose … hospital?’

  ‘Hospital is best,’ said Eileen. ‘The safer option. Have you brought your urine specimen?’

  I handed over my little bottle of wee. Then Eileen talked me through mother mortality rates and the dangers of home birthing.

  Was a relief to get out of her Dettol-smelling office.

  ‘She was a bit stern, wasn’t she?’ said Nick, when I found him in the waiting area. ‘She’s not going to be the one delivering the baby, is she?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Wednesday 13th May

  133 days until my little girl’s birthday

  Nick’s mum came for an ‘urgent talk’ today, re: the pregnancy.

  She arrived at our apartment at 9 pm, swinging a Pret-a-Manger bag, pale-blue eyes frantic and stressed.

  Her wiry black bob was perfectly trimmed as always – I’m sure she gets the hairdresser to use a spirit-level.

  ‘I’m here to talk,’ Helen announced, opening the door with her own key and strolling into the kitchen area.

  I was relaxing in my big pants and t-shirt at this point, eating Ben and Jerry’s Karma Sutra ice cream straight from the pot and watching Don’t Tell the Bride (or as Nick calls it, ‘Whoops! I spent all the money on something you didn’t want).

  ‘Bloody hell, Helen,’ I said, clambering to my feet. ‘We pay rent. Technically, you’re breaking and entering.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not go over that nonsense again,’ said Helen, putting her Pret-a-Manger bag on the marble breakfast bar. ‘Where’s Nicholas?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s nine o’clock. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s in a pub somewhere.’

  Helen looked crest-fallen. ‘Oh. I hoped we could all sit together and talk about the … the situation.’

  ‘Do you mean me being pregnant?’ I asked.

  Helen put a hand to her forehead, which was creased with worry lines. ‘Why did no one tell me you asked to know the sex at that scan? I found out on Facebook.’

  ‘I thought Nick told you,’ I said.

  Helen’s eyes turned sad. ‘I imagine he wanted to, but … he must be so disappointed. Every man wants a son for their first child.’ She lifted a crayfish salad and a can of sparkling apple drink from her brown bag. ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, Juliette, but you must understand – I always want the best for Nick.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Helen,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no need for foul language,’ said Helen, throwing away her pot of salad dressing.

  ‘Nick is happy,’ I said. ‘I mean, he’s freaked out by the whole baby thing in general. But he’s happy it’s a girl.’

  Helen put pale fingers to her forehead. ‘I’m so worried
about this situation. You’re still children, the pair of you. A baby is a big responsibility.’

  ‘I’m nearly thirty,’ I said. ‘And Nick is nearly forty.’

  ‘In age, yes, but Nick has always been immature.’ Helen forked up crayfish and rocket. ‘As a child, he’d burst into tears at the drop of a hat. And he never left my side. Sometimes, I think I pushed him too hard, letting him act on that children’s show, but he was such a bonny little boy. It seemed wrong not to let him shine.’

  ‘The best thing you can do for Nick right now is to stop giving him money,’ I said. ‘How can he be an adult if you keep bailing him out?’

  ‘I’m just trying to be a good mother,’ said Helen. ‘I mean, how is Nicholas going to cope without my help?’

  Wednesday 27th May

  119 days until our baby comes

  Back in the village today, going through Callum’s old baby clothes.

  Brandi had stored them in Mum and Dad’s loft, bagged in Tesco carriers, so we had a fun morning bringing everything down and sorting through.

  Given Brandi’s minimum-wage employment status, she certainly bought Callum a lot of over-priced label clothes. Why she needed so many teeny, tiny Adidas trainers for a baby that couldn’t walk, I’ll never know.

  ‘Why did you waste your money on this nonsense, Brandi?’ said Dad, shaking his head at the Nike, Adidas and Reebok logos. ‘You were just paying for the label.’

  ‘I was a sixteen-year-old single mum when I had Callum,’ said Brandi. ‘What did you expect me to buy him – a three-piece suit?’

  ‘You could have dressed him in the clothes I bought,’ said Dad, pulling free a tiny Peter Storm outdoor jacket, new-born Gortex trousers with elasticated ankle cuffs and an aged 0-3 month thermal polo-neck jumper. ‘These all look brand new.’

  ‘I never dressed him in that old man stuff,’ said Brandi dismissively. ‘Callum cried at the sight of it, and I couldn’t blame him.’

  There wasn’t much that could be reused for a new-born baby girl, but I did take a few tracksuit tops with working zips.

  I can imagine what Helen will say when I bring them back to the apartment.

  She’s threatened to visit us tonight, no doubt with a half bottle of Pinot Grigio (well it is Saturday night!).

  If Helen had her way, she’d dress the baby like Margaret Thatcher.

  Personally, I’m not all that fussy about baby clothes. I have better things to spend my money on. I mean, all babies look like boys anyway.

  Had a slow, waddling walk to the waterfront with Brandi after lunch, and saw Alex Dalton outside the sailing club, talking to the worried-looking chairman.

  Alex was handsome and immaculately turned out as always in a black suit, brown hair loose, but stylishly trimmed.

  Heard Alex’s stern voice floating over the warm breeze: ‘yacht mooring only’ … ‘disgraceful’ … ‘if you can’t run this club properly’ …

  Alex was frowning and gesturing to the river, one hand in his suit pocket.

  As Brandi and I came closer, Alex stopped talking and watched me.

  We crossed the sailing club path, and Alex said, ‘Juliette. Hello.’

  ‘Hi Alex,’ I said.

  Alex glanced down at my pregnant stomach, brown eyes serious – and sort of sad.

  We walked on, but I could feel Alex’s eyes were still on me.

  ‘He’s always fancied you,’ said Brandi. ‘He must be gutted that you’re knocked up by someone else.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said. ‘I’ve just disappointed him, that’s all. Like I’ve disappointed so many people around here. No one in the village wants me to be pregnant by Nick Spencer.’

  Sunday 7th June

  108 days until I become a mum

  Nick couldn’t make the antenatal appointment today – he had an important audition that couldn’t be rescheduled. Also, he was scared about meeting Eileen again.

  Althea came with me instead, toting baby Wolfgang in a tie-dye sling.

  She’s taken to motherhood like a duck to water, carrying Wolfgang everywhere and breastfeeding him morning, noon and night.

  Wolfgang was large at birth, but Althea’s constant breastfeeding has turned him into a mega-baby. When she carries him, it looks like a bald toddler is attacking her.

  Wolfgang is a rather ferocious looking baby now, with a full head of curly black hair.

  He doesn’t have eyebrows as such, but there’s something about his face that gives him the impression of scowling.

  He’s also extremely strong and tussled in his sling like a bear caught in a trap.

  As predicted, Althea got into a row with Eileen – first about homebirths, then baby-wearing and veganism.

  To be fair, Eileen didn’t back down.

  It was like two prize fighters exchanging blows.

  But ultimately Althea had the last word because Eileen had to end the appointment after the allotted ten minutes.

  Tuesday 16th June

  99 days until I hold my little girl

  Had a row with Nick today about living arrangements.

  I blame the manufacturers of the Lullaby Darling Cot (30% off, plus free Tiny Smiles cot bumper).

  I would rename the Lullaby Darling Cot ‘the divorce maker’ if Nick and I were married.

  I mean, why make a flat-pack piece of furniture that requires three people to assemble it?

  We had to enlist the help of our stockbroker neighbour, who dropped screws all over the floor and temporarily lost the Allen key.

  When we finally got the cot assembled, we realised it wouldn’t fit in our ridiculously small executive bedroom, which has a whole wall length of fitted-wardrobe, but hardly any room to walk around the bed or leave clothes on the floor.

  We managed to fit the cot in eventually, with the compromise that Nick could set up his PlayStation in the living room. But now we both have to climb over the bed to reach the en-suite, and the cot looks sort of ominous … like it’s trying to eat the bed. And also a sort-of ticking clock, signalling the end of life as we know it.

  After we’d crammed the cot into the bedroom, I had a meltdown.

  ‘Nick, we need to move house,’ I said. ‘The cot doesn’t even fit in the bedroom. This isn’t a place for a family.’

  ‘We don’t need to move,’ said Nick. ‘I like having Mum as a landlord. It takes a weight off when I can’t make my half of the rent. Look – everything fits in fine. And my PlayStation will be fine in the living room.’

  I cried then. ‘You don’t get it, Nick,’ I said. ‘Things need to change. Where we live. Your job …’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what all this is about,’ said Nick. ‘You wanting me in a boring bloody job. Why can’t you accept that’s not me, Jules? I’m not a 9-5 guy.’

  ‘It’s time to grow up, Nick,’ I said. ‘All these failed auditions, this insecure life. If we at least get our own place –’

  ‘We can’t afford to buy,’ said Nick.

  ‘Not in London,’ I said, ‘But in Great Oakley –’

  ‘I’m never moving back to Great Oakley,’ said Nick. ‘That part of my life is over.’

  ‘But this isn’t about you anymore, Nick,’ I said. ‘Or me. It’s about what’s best for the baby. Life has to change.’

  ‘I’m going out,’ said Nick, grabbing his coat. ‘Just remember – you didn’t even want to have a baby. None of this was planned.’

  Took a sharp intake of breath. ‘How dare you throw that in my face. Neither of us planned this. But that doesn’t mean I won’t love our baby when it comes.’

  And I meant it. I don’t feel like I did back in January. I’m feeling the baby move all the time now and imagining its little arms and legs.

  As the baby grows, I’m growing up too.

  When is Nick going to do that?

  Third Trimester

  Your body has gone through some extraordinary changes and is now preparing to give birth. This can cause a lot of physical discomfort, including hip and joint p
ain and possibly even dislocated joints. Almost all women experience diarrhoea as the due date gets closer, and most will also suffer incontinence.

  You may be too hot or uncomfortable to sleep at night, and your morning sickness could return.

  You might also have symptoms such as anxiety, depression, a heavy heart/sense of loss, panic, confusion and poor memory – some of which can be attributed to your extreme tiredness and inability to sleep.

  Don’t worry – it’s all perfectly normal!

  Pardon me …

  Hello there! It’s just me, Suzy, interrupting the beautiful flow of the story. Sorry about that.

  But I thought you might like to know about all the books in this series. Here they are:

  You’re reading the Bad Mother Begins.

  The next titles are:

  1. The Bad Mother’s Diary

  Amazon.com

  Amazon.co.uk

  2. The Bad Mother’s Detox

  Amazon.com

  Amazon.co.uk

  Wednesday 1st July

  84 days until I have my very own baby

  Took my little nephew, Callum, to the soft play today, for some aunty bonding time.

  Thought it would be a good idea to be around children as much as possible, in preparation for having my own baby.

  Didn’t realise quite how big my pregnant tummy was though, and got stuck between two foam rollers whilst trying to stop Callum fighting another boy.

  Callum’s going through a ‘kicking older boys in the testicles’ phase, which can be embarrassing.

  Some parents are kind and understanding, chuckling, ‘Oh they all do it’.

  Others are furious that their child has been physically attacked – and possibly long-term damaged.

  To be fair, Callum only ball kicks in retaliation to something. He never immobilises another child for no reason. They always hit him first.

  As Callum puts it in his savvy little three-year-old voice, ‘They start it, Aunty Julesy, but I finish it.’