Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 (30 page)

The woman in charge points to a spot about halfway along the shallow end of the pool, where the class is taking place. ‘Just there, next to our other new lady today.’

I nod and gingerly enter the water, carrying Poppy awkwardly as I lower myself into the gratefully warm pool.

I join my fellow newbie.

‘Hi, I’m Samantha… and this is Mickey,’ she says, holding her baby boy up.

‘Hi there, I’m Laura and this is Poppy.’

‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Ladies, please!’ the instructor snaps, silencing us. I swallow hard. This is looking unpleasant. The tall woman is built like a drill instructor and looks like she was born with a whistle in her mouth.

I await further instructions.

‘All of you are only one or two sessions in, so we’re still introducing our babies to the water. Today is all about getting your child used to being immersed in water and submerged above their heads once comfortable.’

Submerged?

I had visions of holding Poppy while she flails her arms and legs around on the surface, not putting her under the bloody water.

I raise my hand.

‘Yes?’ the instructor asks.

‘Erm. What do mean by
submerged
? I thought this was about them having a splash about wearing cute little armbands?’

‘Splash about?’ she parrots in a tone verging on disgust. ‘Armbands?’

‘Well, yeah.’ I turn to Samantha, who nods briefly in agreement. She must feel the same way.

‘That is
not
how this class operates,’ the instructor says with hands on hips. ‘Didn’t you read the pamphlet?’

I
never
read the sodding pamphlet. That’s what usually gets me into trouble in the first place.

‘This class is about promoting the natural mammalian reflex inherent in all babies,’ she informs me.

‘Come again?’

‘All babies are born with the ability to swim. They spend the first nine months of life immersed in utero. We are here to simply encourage the development of that intrinsic skill.’

Well, there was me thinking I just needed a cute swimsuit to come to this class, not a degree in biology.

The stern instructor looks back at the whole group again. ‘We’re going to start with gently placing baby into the water to get him or her used to it.’ She turns to another woman behind her holding a robust looking dark haired boy. ‘Can I have Francis now, Helen?’ The baby is duly passed and held up in a tableau that disturbingly reminds me of a sacrifice scene from a horror movie. ‘Gently lower baby into the water…’

I try to copy her movements with Poppy. Initially, my baby squirms as the water immerses her legs and bum. Then, miraculously, she calms down and starts to waggle her arms and legs.

Poppy lets out a cry of delight.

This is
wonderful
!

I smile at Sam, who seems to be having a little more trouble convincing Mickey that the water is a nice place to be. Around me, the other mothers are having a variety of success with the task as well, but no baby appears to be as happy in the wet stuff as mine.

A small, warm glow of self-satisfaction passes through me. I try to suppress it.

…and fail.

I have become that which I detest: a smug mother.

‘Excellent!’ the black-haired instructor says, looking at me. I beam with new found pride. ‘Now, lower the baby further if they are happy. If you feel confident enough, loosen your grip and allow them to float on their own.’

I do so, and Poppy giggles in delight once again. She appears to be a happy little water baby.

Maybe she’ll go to the Olympics
, I think - getting way ahead of myself, Poppy and the universe as a whole.

I take one hand away and still Poppy splashes about with no trouble.

This is amazing! This is brilliant! My daughter is a real talent!

I confidently take my other hand away.

Poppy, relieved of all motherly support, drops like a fucking stone.

I screech in panic as my poor baby’s shocked face drops away into the watery depths.

Everyone turns to stare at me.

My idiotic hubris is going to get my first born drowned!

With another wail I plunge into the water, grab Poppy around the waist and stand up. The entire incident couldn’t have lasted more than three or four seconds, but to me it’s a lifetime.

Poppy starts to cough loudly. I pat her on the back and she produces a belch of magnificent proportions.

‘I’m sorry Pops! I’m so, so sorry!’ I tell her, hugging her close.

‘Never mind, dear!’ the instructor says. ‘That’s fairly common. She’s perfectly fine.’

Oh sod off, you muscle-bound cow.

I’m expecting a torrent of tears from my daughter, but once the coughing fit passes she just starts to babble at me in her usual baby talk. ‘Meeble! Herflurgle me booble nodda munna mumma weeble.’

‘I know Poppy, I’m sorry for letting you go.’

She points a dainty finger at me. ‘Merble tooble munna bunna wabba.’ Her little eyebrows lower into a frown. ‘Cuuunn ta!’

For the rest of the session, I control my competitive streak and let Poppy progress at a slower pace. I’m pleased to say that my foray into overconfidence doesn’t appear to have dented Poppy’s. She is still more than happy in the water, and by the time the thirty minutes are up she’s happily bobbing around, pointing at things and laughing her head off.

It’s quite magical to watch a baby paddling about. There’s such an intense sense of
rightness
about it that I find hard to put down in words. Maybe the instructor is correct – there is something in babies, and in all of us, that makes us comfortable in the water.
A
subconscious remembrance of what it was like to be in the womb.

After we’ve all changed, a few of us remain behind for a coffee in the leisure centre café.

Sam is a nice girl and Mickey is a well behaved little boy. Not once does she compare his progress with Poppy’s, and not once do I feel like I’m in competition with her. It’s nice to have a new friend.

We spend a happy hour slagging off every other mother and baby at the session, and both decide our friendly instructor is probably a lesbian.

If there’s one thing worse than one woman in competition with another, it’s
two
women who share similar opinions ganging up on the others.

I must introduce Sam to Mel.

Between the three of us we should be able to look down on the entire female population of the planet.

The main thing I’m learning is that being a parent brings out both the best and the worst in you.

As each day passes the fierce love I hold for my daughter grows ever stronger. I know that I would do anything for her, sacrifice anything to keep her safe. This is quite a noble feeling, which makes me feel pretty good about myself.

On the other hand I’d throw everyone I know under a train to protect her.

This is not a noble feeling in the slightest.

The next time I meet someone who has trouble expressing their emotions, I’m going to recommend they give birth as soon as possible. There’s nothing like a string of sleepless nights and a sense of protectiveness bordering on psychopathic to open the emotional flood gates.

Love you, miss you - and am grateful you didn’t take me to baby swim classes, Mum. I would have drowned in seconds.

Your thoughtful daughter, Laura.

xxx

Jamie’s Blog

Sunday 30 November

Tempus, as people insist on telling me, has a distinct habit of fugiting when you least suspect it.

Life may be the thing that happens while you’re busy making other plans, but time is the thing that decides how long you get to do it.

Today was Poppy’s first birthday.

It’s hard to believe an entire year has passed since Laura made a mess of the Apple store and I did a serious amount of damage to the car – none of which has been fixed properly yet.

It has been, without a doubt, the hardest, silliest, most brutal and most amazing year of my life.

And this is coming from the person who nearly murdered his future wife with a fajita, got sexually molested by a drunk lunatic and bawled his eyes out in front of a chubby lass dressed as Lara Croft – all in the space of twelve months.

I’ve decided that my daughter has an innate sense of timing, which will no doubt see her on the stage in the future. I’m now thoroughly convinced she’ll have a successful career as a stand-up comedian.

This is due to the fact that a year to the day since she popped into the world from her mother’s ravaged lady bits (from what I’ve been told, I didn’t have the guts to look) Poppy Helen Newman took her first unaided steps across the lounge floor.

It’s quite incredible really.

As it was her first birthday we decided to go to town and purchase Poppy as many birthday presents as we could with our current bank balance.

…none of which she is old enough to appreciate properly, but what the hell, your first born doesn’t turn one every day of the week.

This is the rather silly mentality that keeps the major baby toy companies in Porsches and expensive champagne – but I digress.

Laura and I argued about what to buy Poppy of course.

I was all for buying the big, beefy trike I spotted in Toys R Us, until Laura handily pointed out that it was obviously meant for a child much older than ours, and if we tried to put her on it, she’d wobble about for a few seconds before falling off in a screaming, nappy-filled heap.

When a baby is one year old, everything worth purchasing is plastic, brightly coloured to the point of stupidity and (naturally) hideously pricey. Never mind that said baby is endlessly entertained by a set of car keys being jangled in front of her.

If the brightly coloured plastic piece of rubbish has buttons on it that when pressed play an out of tune rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, you’re onto a real winner.

Poppy will have many of these for her first birthday.

Along with an enormous play house that Laura fell in love with the second she laid eyes on it. I tried to point out that our daughter is only two feet long, whereas this monstrosity is nearly tall enough for me to stand up in.

The wife was having none of it though. She’s completely enamoured by the cute flower boxes and little arched windows.