Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [76]
What I remember mostly about the labor, which they induced a bit early, was that I couldn’t keep Mark away from the business end. You’ve got to remember I’d had three babies without a man in attendance, and it wasn’t exactly how I wanted to be seen. I’d started having my babies in the Frank Spencer era, for goodness’ sake, where fathers paced in corridors. But he was fascinated, totally unsqueamish, and determined to cut the cord. About halfway through, I felt utterly tired, and I made up my mind before you were born that this would DEFINITELY be the last time—I’d had enough. They had scans by then, although not quite as sophisticated as they are today, maybe, and I was all for finding out what you were. But your dad wanted a surprise. I suppose I knew by then that I was destined to have girls. Funny thing was, he wanted one, too. And you were. Completely different from Amanda—I couldn’t get a look in. You’ve never seen a man fall so instantly and so deeply in love! You were jaundiced, thank God—that meant a night in hospital to recover, rather than being sent home the same day. You looked like you’d just flown in from the Caribbean, all suntanned. The one time I could have done with ten days in the cottage hospital, they wanted to give me two paracetamol and the number of a cab firm. Don’t think I could have walked outside to the car if I’d wanted to. The GP had a point about age after all. But I’m sounding flippant, and I didn’t feel it. You were supposed to be born.
So that is roughly it. The four very best days of my life. The four very best things about my life. My four works of art. I have tips for you—what mother wouldn’t? Actually, my mother, your grandmother, did a real number on me. She said it was hard work. Mentioned nothing about the indignity and the pain. Well, I’m here to tell you, it is painful, and it is undignified. Forewarned is forearmed. If they offer you drugs, take them. Drugs are good. Gas and air is like gin and tonic. Check the circumference of a man’s head before you agree to have a child with him. None of this big hands, big feet nonsense. It’s all about big skulls. You’ll thank me. If possible, lie down for all of the nine months, because for the next nine months you’ll be lucky if you get the chance to lie down at all. Don’t knit yellow and green matinee jackets (as if—you girls can’t even sew on a button! I blame the mother!) because once you have a flavor—pink or blue—that is the only thing you’ll dress them in. Don’t bother with a birth plan. I never met a woman who got the birth she requested. The ones who claim they did obviously had too much pethidine. And most important, make like a cabbage. Trust me—it works.
Disposable nappies are fine. If you’ve ever had to rinse diarrhea out of a terry napkin liner, you’ll worry less about landfill, believe me. Tell yourself you’re raising scientists who’ll grow up to solve the problems you’re creating. Breast may very well be best, but mastitis is a bitch, and if you can tell me which one of you lot is a formula baby (answer: you, Hannah; I didn’t feel gravity needed any encouragement), I’ll give you a prize. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Any of it. Your kids will do that for you when they’re old enough. Oh—and about stretch marks. I have them, so chances are you will, too. Can’t help, but I apologize for the genetic cock-up. My advice is to wear bikinis now. You, too, Jennifer.
Time’s up. Come in number nine—we’ve finished dripping poison into you through this hole in your arm, and we’re ready for the next victim. Sorry, patient. We need the chair. Time to go home and wait to start throwing up. It’s been nice, girls, reminiscing about the happier hospital times.
Mum
Amanda
Amanda was in line at Trailfinders, waiting for her turn to find a trail. She’d decided last night, while watching a particularly dark and depressing episode of Eastenders, that she wasn’t going to waste any more time hanging around.