Read Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 (9 page)
Wednesday 10 July
Yawn
.
Out of bed again…
I can’t sleep because of Laura’s thrashing, so thought I’d update the blog.
I’ll get onto the reasons why she’s thrashing around in bed like a landed turbot shortly, but first:
I’ve never been to the hospital so much in my bloody life.
I’m thinking of paying for a permanent parking space. I’m sure it’ll end up being cheaper in the long run than having to pay the extortionate parking fees.
It barely seems like five minutes have passed since the last time we drove away, before I’m once again sat with the driver’s side window open, bashing the stupid ticket machine and swearing sulphurously when it doesn’t spit out the ticket quick enough.
I hate hospitals.
They’re full of sick people.
Corridors and corridors of people suffering either from things I can catch, or things I don’t want to look at.
Every time I enter one I have to constantly suppress the mild panic attack that’s threatening to claw its way up my throat and embarrass me in public.
Imagine my delight therefore, at having to more or less live in the maternity wing thanks to my wife’s pregnancy.
I’ve seen some of the nurses so many times now I’m seriously considering adding them on Facebook.
We’re also getting very familiar with our doctor, a short, timid looking man called Abbotson.
He has a facial tic.
He winks.
A
lot
.
It’s very disconcerting.
I can’t tell whether he’s being serious about the pregnancy or not when he speaks to us. ‘You have to keep up your vitamin intake, Mrs Newman,’ he’ll say. ‘A healthy immune system is vital to a baby’s development.’
Wink
. ‘It’s advisable to take multi-vitamins right up until you give birth.’
Wink wink
.
Do you mean that, squire? Or are you mucking about? You sound quite serious, but the winking is making me think this is one big practical joke at our expense. Do we need the bloody vitamins or not?
Other than the tic, Dr Abbotson is a congenial sort of bloke.
The same cannot be said for Marigold Ubantu, our midwife.
Marigold is originally from
One of the first things she said to us was: ‘I have helped deliver babies with gunfire going on over my head. Don’t you worry about it at all. Marigold will see you right.’
I think this was meant to sooth our nerves, but Marigold is over six feet tall, has forearms like hams and survived half her life in a country where sudden death was an ever present threat. She’s impressive and scary in equal measure.
Frankly, I don’t envy Laura one little bit. She’s the one who gets man-handled by Marigold on a regular basis.
‘She’s very gentle when she needs to be, don’t get me wrong,’ Laura told me after one visit. ‘But if you do anything to annoy her - like say you haven’t been keeping to your pregnancy diet - she turns into this mighty Zulu warrior and gives you the flintiest, eyeball-straining look of displeasure I’ve ever seen. It makes me wee myself a bit every time.’
‘You want to change midwife?’ I asked her.
‘Are you kidding?’ she replied. ‘This woman has successfully helped give birth to children in a bloody war zone. Even if she does shout at me, she’s perfect!’
It’s not just Laura who gets it in the neck.
The other day Marigold wanted a one-to-one with my wife on how she felt the pregnancy was going. I objected, not least because there’s very little to do in a hospital other than kick the chocolate machine repeatedly until a Twix falls out, but also on the grounds that I was the father and had a right to be there.
‘You go away now, you stupid man!’ Marigold hollered at me. ‘She’s the important one here, not you and your dangly penis. It did its job months ago, now let me do mine.’ And with that, the door was closed on me for an hour, with no hope of re-entry.
On this particular day though, Marigold is in a very good mood.
‘We can tell the sex of the baby today Newmans,’ she beams. ‘We’ll see whether you’re having a sweet little girl, or one of those nasty, smelly little boys.’ Marigold throws her head back and laughs to the heavens. It’s like being around a force of nature imprisoned in a human body. ‘You want to know what the sex is?’
This is something Laura and I had discussed at length. While there is a certain thrill to remaining in the dark until such time as the child is squeezed from the womb, it comes with an inability to plan ahead properly.
Other couples may have the time and money to shop for both a baby boy and girl, but Mrs Newman and I are on a tight budget right now, with her working as part-time manager of the local
Also, we’re both testy buggers when kept in the dark, so decide it’s best to know the gender of our unborn child as soon as possible, to avoid stress, arguments and an ever so slight feeling of disappointment if it ends up being the sex we don’t want.
‘Yes, we’d like to know,’ Laura says.
‘Aha!’ Marigold grins. ‘Good for you! I hate these wishy-washy bastards who can’t decide, or want to wait until the baby comes out. The sooner you know, the sooner you can start worrying about what colour to paint everything. Am I right?’ I get the feeling that if I disagree she’ll smack me on the head until I’m permanently cross-eyed, so I nod vigorously.
‘Right, let’s go see Narinda.’ Marigold strides out and we follow along like the good little expectant parents we are.
Narinda is as pleased to see us.
I’m not sure if she’s happy to see Marigold or not.
Everyone has the same stunned expression on their face when the Namibian woman appears, so it’s quite impossible to say how they’re feeling about the situation.
In short order, Narinda has the ultra-sound going and finds the kid where it’s supposed to be, swimming around
in utero
and blissfully unaware of the insane world it’s going to be thrust into in a few months.
‘Okay then,’ says Narinda. ‘I can tell you the baby’s gender now. Are you sure you want to know?’
‘Yes,’ Laura and I say together.
Narinda smiles and shakes her head. ‘
Absolutely
sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because once I tell you, there’s no going back!’
I get the impression Narinda is one for the big birth moments. It’s obvious she thinks it’s better to find out if your kid’s an innie or an outie when it escapes from between its mothers legs.
‘Oh, for the sake of the good Lord woman!’ booms Marigold. ‘Tell these poor buggers whether they have a boy or a girl!’ she says, giving Narinda the eyeball.
Narinda looks ever so slightly terrified and looks back to me and Laura.
My heart skips a beat.
‘You’re having a girl,’ she tells us.
A girl.
Visions flash through my head: Pink ribbons, Barbie dolls, ponies, hair clips, teenage boyfriends with acne, the shotgun I’m going to have to buy to keep said teenage boyfriends on the external side of my daughter’s underwear, make-up boxes, sleep-overs, a fridge full of ice cream, posters of boy bands, the arguments about skirt length, perfume bottles on every bathroom surface… and worst of all, living with
two
women on their period.
Gah.
A mine field of experience unravels in front of me. Eighteen years of putting up with not one, but two completely insane creatures who I’ll never understand - that will take over my house with soft, frilly things that smell of jasmine and ylang ylang.
All of this sounds dreadful, but for some reason I’m smiling like an absolute goon.
‘A girl,’ Laura says, her eyes filling with tears for what’s probably the fifth time that day. ‘I’m having a little girl.’
‘Yes, you are!’ Marigold bellows. ‘Good for you! Girls are much nicer and don’t start wars that get your village burned to the ground.’
There’s a moment’s silence while we digest this.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s a good reason to have a girl, alright.’
Marigold doesn’t throttle me, so I guess I didn’t say anything that offensive…
The rest of the day’s appointment is the usual question and answer session, with Marigold getting through all the important health matters related to this stage of a pregnancy.
I’ve zoned out to tell the truth. The big news of the day has come and gone and it’s all I can think about.
…more accurately, all I can think about is names.
Now we know it’s a girl, we can get down to the tricky business of slapping an identifier on her.
‘What about Kayla?’ I suggest to Laura in the car on the way home.
‘Kayla? That sounds like it’s skirting dangerously close to Kylie, Newman.’
‘Is it? Doesn’t sound like it to me.’
‘I’m not calling my child Kayla.’
‘Ariadne?’
‘Are you fucking mental?’
‘What about Jacinda? Jacinda’s a nice name.’ Jacinda is in fact a bloody
horrible
name, but I’m having fun winding Laura up now.
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No I’m not,’ I lie. ‘I think it’s a lovely name.’
‘It sounds like someone who has sex with her horse.’
‘Maybe something a bit more original, then. How about naming her after somewhere nice?’ I fake a look of intense concentration. ‘I know!
There’s every chance Laura will see through my ruse with that one. Even I shouldn’t be dumb enough to suggest naming a baby after a country that’s been bathing in the blood of its own people for the past few years.
‘
You’re seriously suggesting we name our baby Sy
- ’
Laura looks like she’s just sucked a lemon. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you?’
I
smirk
the smirkiest smirk that’s ever been smirked. ‘Of course not, darling.’
‘You, Jamie Newman,’ she says, pointing a finger at me in no uncertain terms, ‘are a baboon’s warty scrotum.’