Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [85]
Being born so close to Christmas, Daniel was virtually whisked straight from the hospital to my grandparents’ house on 25 December, to share the big day with them plus my mum’s sister Anne, her husband Geoff and their children, Theresa and Jonathan. After a pretty harrowing few months, it was such a relief to relax among family. Even though I was acutely aware of not being married, I still felt proud at bringing a bundle of joy into Tremola Avenue. After all the harsh words that had been exchanged during the last days of my life there, it was good to spread some joy for once. There’s nothing like a baby at Christmas. It was the best present ever.
Welcoming Daniel into our little cottage, however, I saw it with fresh eyes – a mother’s eyes.
This won’t do. It’s not big enough.
Peter agreed, although for different reasons.
‘I don’t want to be hearing crying all day and night,’ he informed me coldly.
‘How are we going to stop it?’ I asked innocently, as though my more mature partner had the secret to child-rearing.
‘We’re not going to stop it. You are. It’s not my job.’
It was as though Peter’s contribution ended with choosing the name. He wouldn’t feed Daniel, he wouldn’t bathe or burp him. He would barely hold Daniel, unless I genuinely couldn’t physically do it at that moment. I had to have both hands full before Peter would help, and only then if it suited him, like if I was trying to carry his dinner and mug of tea. He was happy to go for walks with us, as long as I pushed the pram, but really that’s about as close as he liked to get.
It sounds awful, but I actually had nothing to judge Peter against. There’d been no male role model when I was growing up. For all I knew, this was exactly how dads were expected to behave. My own grandfather, after all, deferred to Granny on virtually all matters of child-rearing. So, as unhappy as I was at bearing the full brunt of responsibility, I didn’t immediately think Peter was being a particularly bad dad.
He’s done it before, I thought. This must be normal.
I, on the other hand, was eager to learn. But where could I look? These days new mums can go to classes and there are books and DVDs you can buy. The majority of women, though, still draw most of their childcare information from their own mums. Obviously I couldn’t do that. I knew nothing and I was reminded of it again and again. I hated that. I’ve always been able to master anything. Give me a puzzle and I’ll complete it, a school topic and I’ll memorize it, a game like pool and I’ll master it in no time. This baby lark, though, was unknown territory for me. It seemed like every second of the day I was confronted by another situation that terrified me, another reminder that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.
I didn’t know when Daniel should eat and sleep, whether he should lie on his front or his back. I didn’t know if he was too hot or too cold. It was all trial and error. I looked to Peter for guidance, but he was only interested in one thing, as I found out on the first night when I curled up next to the sleeping baby in our bed.
‘No way, Cathy, this isn’t how it works. The baby sleeps in the cot. We sleep here.’
‘But I’ll have to feed him in an hour. I don’t want to be getting up all night.’
I shouldn’t have disagreed.
‘I don’t want the fucking thing in here!’
He’s just tired, like me, I thought and immediately blocked the outburst from my mind.
As a result, exhaustion kicked in. I thought I’d been tired lugging my groceries up the hill during the last weeks of pregnancy, but this was a new level of torture. No wonder interrogators use sleep deprivation. By the end of our first month, I would have admitted to anything. I just wanted to rest.
But I couldn’t, not with Peter. If Daniel wasn’t being held, fed or played with, then he had to be in his cot. That was when I should have had forty winks. As soon as I had my hands free, though, I was still expected to clean and cook. Before