And Baby Makes Two

permission. The form of torture chosen by my mother was having to listen to advice from everyone and anyone she could drag into my private affairs.

Nan said I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for.

“Children are a full-time job,” said my nan. “Just washing the nappies used to take me hours.”

I thought she was joking. It had never occurred to me that disposable nappies hadn’t always been around.

“Well, nobody washes nappies any more,” I said when she’d corrected me. “Or bottles.”

“You’re throwing your life away,” said my nan.

“You mean like you did?” I asked. “You had four kids. That means you threw it away more than once.”

“You should learn from other people’s mistakes,” said my nan. “Not repeat them.”

My sister Charlene had obviously inherited her genes from my mother’s side.

“You’re throwing your life away,” said Charlene. “You should live a little before you have kids.”

“You’ve got two of your own,” I pointed out.

“You don’t have a husband,” said Charlene.

“Neither do you. You’re divorced.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” said Charlene. “But I do have someone who contributes to our expenses. And I have a job. I’d go mad if I had to stay at home with them.”

I laughed. “You’re mad, anyway.”

My sister Dara – the one who’d been trying to have a baby for about twenty years – said my life was over.

“You’re the one who said there’s more to life than a good job and a gold credit card,” I reminded her. It was the song she sang at every family gathering after her second glass of wine. “You’re the one who wants to get knocked up so bad.”

“I’m not fifteen,” said Dara. “I’ve travelled and stuff. I have a career and a stable relationship. All you do is go shopping and watch telly.”

The headteacher said I didn’t have to give up school and my GCSEs. The door to my education wasn’t closed. There were special programmes for girls in my situation.

“What situation?” I asked. “I haven’t been kidnapped. I’m having a baby.”

The doctor said she hoped I knew what I was doing and that there were people I could talk to if I couldn’t talk to my mother.

“Make sure you explore all your options,” she advised me.

“I have,” I said. “I’m not a murderer.”

They all sounded like my mother when they sighed.

The doctor gave me a stack of leaflets to read, vitamins and a regular appointment at the antenatal clinic. She told me there were birthing classes at the hospital me and my partner could sign up for.

I said my partner and I would be keen.

“It’ll take a lot of the mystery and fear out of it for you,” she informed me. “I’d strongly recommend it. Especially since you’re so young.”

“We’ll go,” I promised. “We consider this a sharing experience.”

I got that line from a magazine for mothers-to-be. Old four-eyes loved it.

Then she told me all about the toy library and the clothing exchange the council ran. As if I’d let my child play with toys some other kids had chewed on or wear clothes somebody else’s baby had had the splatters in. I mean, really…

Even Mrs Mugurdy upstairs got in on the act. She thought I was throwing my life away, too.

“When I was your age I was dreaming of sailing across the ocean to Thailand or Peru,” said Mrs Mugurdy, “not watching Sesame Street.”

“And here you are in Kilburn,” I answered cheerfully.

“I did live in Singapore for many years,” said Mrs Mugurdy.

I thought she was winding me up. I didn’t know Singapore was a country, I thought it was some kind of drink.

Only Charley didn’t give me a hard time.

“I rather fancy being a grandad,” said Charley. “I like babies.”

“That’s because you’ve never had any,” said my mother.

Preggers

I had my own ideas of what being preggers would be like.

My body would swell, but it would be more womanly and sensual. With all those hormones steaming through my body, my skin would become soft and radiant. I would glow.

It wouldn’t all be good news, though. There was morning sickness and indigestion and various aches and pains. The old cow made sure I knew all about those.

“Just wait till you get heartburn,” she’d tell me gleefully. “Just wait till you can’t sleep or sit down for more than five minutes.”

But what I was worried about was becoming frumpy and tired-looking like some of the women I saw in the supermarket. I’d look at them and think, how could they get pregnant when they’re so unattractive?

And I wasn’t going to walk as though someone had stuck my arms on backwards, either. I’d seen a picture of Cindy Crawford naked when she was pregnant, and she looked great. And pictures of Posh Spice. She had clothes on, but they were cool designer clothes, and she looked great, too. You couldn’t imagine them crouching over the toilet bowl or refusing to go to a party because their back hurt. They were beautiful and pregnant. Not pregnant but beautiful. That’s what I was going to be like.

I could see myself sort of floating down Oxford Street in a long, flowing white dress. I was wearing gold platforms and a gold necklace and the gold charm bracelet Les gave me for Christmas. Women smiled at me. Men gazed longingly. When I got on a bus everybody offered me a seat. Light shimmered around me and everyone was laughing. I looked like an angel with a bun in the oven and a lot of friends.

“Lana!” my mother shouted through the bathroom door. “Lana, are you all right?”

If my mouth hadn’t been filled with vomit I’d’ve made some snappy answer to shut her up. Like, “I’m fine. This is what I do instead of having a second cup of tea.” It wasn’t even morning sickness, really. I got it all the time, morning, noon and night.

But my mouth was filled with vomit so I just gagged.

“Do you want me to make you a cup of tea before I go?”

I swear, the woman was a tea junkie. You wouldn’t want to be on the Titanic with her. Instead of a life-jacket, she’d throw you a cup of PG Tips.

“Agggh!” I choked in reply.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I gasped. “I’m brilliant.”

I spat the remains of my breakfast into the bowl, rinsed my mouth with the glass of water I kept next to the loo for these emergencies and shuffled to the door.

She was still there.

“Are you going to school?”

She thought I should stay till the end of the year. To make sure that I did, she was blackmailing me. If I didn’t make an effort to go to school, even if I was puking up all over the place, she’d cut off my pocket- money.

“Do I have a choice?”