• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1460 0

were overcooked—your nails were long and your skin was dry—but I thought you were perfect. I felt like the only woman alive who had ever done this. We stayed in for a week, in those days. Your dad took the bus up to the hospital every day after work and held you. I had a white knitted bed jacket. I remember my friend Maria brought me in some knitting needles and some pink wool—she had boys; we were all so delighted that you were a girl, who we were going to get to dress up, and make pretty, and wheel around in the big Mary Poppins pram.

I was sure Jennifer would be a boy. I carried her differently—much neater and all out in front, everyone else said so, too. It was winter, so I wasn’t so uncomfortable, and I didn’t get nearly so big. I could still button up my winter coat until almost the end. Probably chasing after Lisa did that. She was just walking—I swear all that endless leaning over her as she toddled everywhere got that labor going. I wasn’t nervous at all—whatever discomfort I’d felt last time had receded in my memory, and I thought I was an old pro. Jennifer was much more difficult, though. We should have known we were in trouble when she started during a crucial Man United game. Maria had Lisa for us, but we had the car by then. I remember not wanting to sit down in the front seat, so I ended up sprawled on the backseat. It was all going along like it should, and then everything sort of stopped. The contractions were still strong, but they were much further apart, and I was tired. You were stuck, they said. Forceps. Which, when you are lying flat on your back and see them wielded above your nether regions, are particularly terrifying pieces of equipment. You were literally dragged into the world—I remember watching the doctor leaning back and pulling on them. After Lisa I felt exultant and triumphant; after Jennifer I just felt like I’d been hit by a lorry. I barely looked at you when they wheeled you away to the nursery, barely registered surprise that you were a girl. You were a tiny, wrinkled face in a huge white blanket. They were having to stitch me up, and I was sore and exhausted, and probably a bit fed up. Then they gave me a cup of tea and a piece of toast and I felt dreadful that I’d taken so little interest in you and insisted that they bring you back to me. I cried, I think. I was like a lioness then. You had Lisa’s fingers, too, but way more hair, curling on your neck. The forceps had left little indentations in your forehead, little bruises, and I remember kissing them and telling you how sorry I was that you’d had such a difficult journey. You’d had a tough day, too. You barely cried. You just stared up at me, and your eyes were practically black, and unblinking. The midwife called you an old soul. She said some babies just looked like it wasn’t their first time around, and that you were one of them. Your dad whispered to me that she was talking rubbish, but I knew what she meant.

It seemed so neat, two girls so close together. The perfect little family. You had a little present for Lisa, when your dad brought her in the next day to see you. It was a dolly—you remember Doll Baby?—and we put it in your crib, so that she thought you gave it to her. She was so uninterested in that doll, the first day. She just wanted to get to you—a real baby was much more fun. She adored you. Until you were about three and you started arguing with her. But when you were new she adored you. You and Doll Baby used to lie together on a towel on our bed. Her baby and my baby, being washed and dried and powdered, and talked to.

I wasn’t with Dad anymore when Amanda was born. I know it sounds selfish, but I enjoyed you being all mine. Not having to share you with anyone, even though I clearly caused a stir in the maternity ward. You were absolutely the standard seven-hour labor—straightforward, painful, but pretty quick. This time I really felt like I understood the process. I’d perfected the cabbage thing, and I got the rhythm of it. Each contraction brought you closer to me (I know, that sounds like new age bollocks,