MARCH
SPRING IS AROUND THE corner at last and today I have the day to myself. Lyla is dropped to school by Simon and Storie (I expect they’re listening to her playlist of hideous wind chime music in their electric car – Lyla told me it sounds like someone gently banging knives and forks on glasses). I have had too many days to myself recently. I start with such grand plans. This will be the day I go through the cupboard under the stairs and list Lyla’s old high chair on eBay for some extra cash. This will be the day I cut my wardrobe down by half and donate everything to charity. This will be the day I go to Tesco to buy miscellaneous birthday cards to have in stock at home so that I never again have to flap round the house searching for one. This will be the day I batch-cook a load of nutritious meals to freeze and eat at a later date.
Except it never is the day. None of those days have ever happened in my life. I dream of those days, those never-happening days.
Instead I feel anxious and isolated, watch a lot of daytime TV or get lost in a wormhole of daily vloggers on YouTube who are leading seemingly more glamorous lives than me and being amazing parents. If I’m feeling very low, I’ll treat myself to a giant Costa latte and slice of chocolate tiffin, before I do the food shopping (the freezer won’t stack itself with oven pizzas and fish fingers) and go to collect Lyla from school. All of this will be done in leggings, slightly bagging around the knees, and an oversized shirt that I try to convince myself looks ‘effortlessly stylish’ like celebs at festivals but actually just looks effortless.
Still, though, this will be the day. I keep thinking about Lacey’s pep talk and my idea at Auntie Kath’s and it has given me quite a boost. This actually bloody will be the day I make the most of the me time and tick things off my list.
Here we go:
Shower and style self. This feels like a given, but after Val’s remarks I realise just how downtrodden I’ve been looking lately and think I might give it a bit more effort. Twice in two months will be some kind of record!
List understairs junk on eBay. My cubbyhole is a TARDIS-like vortex for years gone by. If there were ever a prize for real-life Tetris with baby/child equipment, I’d win it hands down. I’ve got half of Mothercare stashed away in my house. The distinct lack of romance in my life suggests there are no more little Lylas coming my way, so it’s time to let it all go. Like the mini-trampoline I bought last year, thinking I’d go on it every night and be more toned than Julia Roberts in the Pretty Woman piano scene in mere months. In reality, I had five or six big bounces and was quickly reminded what a difficult birth Lyla was. Thanks to my bladder, my trampolining days are well and truly over.
Clean out make-up kit and – be brave – message Natalie about more independent jobs. I secretly love sorting through my kit. There’s something very cathartic about cleaning brushes and wiping down all the products. Tiny little pots of colour and shimmer. Tubes of concealer and foundation promising the holy grail of perfect skin. Huge flat palettes that open with a satisfying click and are filled with circular slots of every shade you can imagine: some neutral, some iridescent, some you can’t imagine how you’d actually incorporate into a make-up look (acid green, I’m looking at you). This is definitely achievable today. You’ve got to make your list manageable.
Work out. I’ve had my gym membership for two years now but barely used it. Mum bought me it after a visit up from their place in Cornwall, and I’m not sure if I was more insulted than grateful. Still, it’s there, so I’m going to be bold and give it a go.
Right: list written (on unopened phone bill), I should probably add ‘open impending doom envelopes’ to the list, but I’m not going to be totally unrealistic.
Time to seize the day!
After a long shower (including leg shave and exfoliation – oh, how I’m treating myself), I take a bit of time to assess my wardrobe and pick something out that isn’t stretchy or jersey cotton.
This is actually more challenging that I first anticipated it to be. Aside from the odd special occasion dress (I cycle through the same five for weddings, christenings and birthday meals out) and my nice white shirt which now has a red wine stain, dammit, I seem to just live in jeans, T-shirts, smocks or leggings. This is ridiculous.
I quickly give up (story of my life) and throw on some sweats and a tee because nobody in their right mind would tackle an understairs cubbyhole in something without stretch. How ludicrous.
Surprising even myself, I plod downstairs, set my Spotify to ‘Motivation’ and begin tearing things out of the cupboard with more gusto than I thought I had in me at 9.45 a.m. This is my day! I’m doing it! First I pull out all the things I actually use, like the hoover, mop, a ladder and put them in the kitchen. Once I’ve scratched the first layer I’m on to the ‘sorting through’ items. With a bit of effort, I retrieve the high chair, car seat, pram chassis, pram top, pushchair top, separate umbrella pushchair (this kid had a lot of transport options, apparently), a Bumbo seat, the rock-and-vibrate bouncer (that I remember Simon and I having a massive row over in Mothercare, him saying it was too expensive and me arguing that I needed it if only so I could have a moment of quiet and maintain my sanity), a clear plastic tub of smaller toys, a broken plastic watering can, a squashed lampshade, a plethora of half-used tins of paint from when Granny lived here and a dusty bin bag of coloured card from the découpage crafting phase I went through three years ago. With everything scattered haphazardly around my hall and lounge, I can clearly see just how much junk I’ve been hoarding and feel suddenly quite overwhelmed.
Turning back to the cubbyhole to see if I’ve missed anything, I’m surprised to find my old shell box. I hold it in my hands, running my fingers over each varnished shell. Kath brought back this beautiful, deep, A4 sized box covered in shells from one of her holidays in the Mediterranean with Derek when I was about thirteen, and I’ve used it as a memory box ever since. I’ve thrown in photos and ticket stubs, lucky charms like a miniature troll with red hair and the plastic hospital bracelets Lyla had on her wrists and ankles when she was born. It’s so lovely to find it again. I feel all my memories flooding back as I rifle through, and then, at the bottom, I find all the notes and bits of paper I’ve written on over the years, scrawling out lists and memories and thoughts on the world around me. I’d forgotten I used to do that. I take them out and start to read through them – the thoughts I wrote down the overwhelming day I found out I was pregnant; a couple of pictures of Lyla when we first brought her home – I should put these in the albums with the rest, smiley snaps from when Simon and I first moved in together; a gorgeous photo of Lacey and me in bikinis in her back garden – we must have been about fourteen – I can remember how hot it was, and how we felt like we could take over the world … Then I discover a page torn from a notebook, soft from being folded and unfolded so many times. I know exactly what it is. Lacey has so often said, when I’ve wobbled since Simon left, that having Lyla was an amazing thing. I carried and gave birth to that beautiful baby girl. I did it. And if I can do that, she always says, I can do anything. I unfold the pages and read:
Ten days since Lyla burst into our lives. Feels like a decade already. All the days merge into one when you don’t sleep through the nights. No one told me breastfeeding would be so hard. I know they say it’s all about bonding with baby and ‘breast is best’, but fuck me, it had better be worth it. Right now it feels like I constantly have 7lbs of flesh attached to me. When she sucks it’s like a thousand tiny threads of cotton are being pulled from the back of my chest, through my boob and out of my nipples. Every time she latches on I flinch and make a face. This isn’t like the adverts with that mum in soft grey clothes in the perfect airy nursery. I feel so duped. This is horrific.
We were watching Grand Designs when it happened. Kevin McCloud was talking about a building ‘blending seamlessly into the surrounding countryside’ or something and then all of a sudden, my waters broke. There were no contractions, no warnings, just a massive gush and the sofa upholstery was ruined!
Called the maternity unit, and they told us to wait until the contractions began and then come in. As soon as we’d put the phone down, they began. They were so mild at first that I thought all those women on One Born Every Minute were wimps, but after two hours things heated up. I rolled on my ball while Simon watched the News At Ten, and then I couldn’t take it any longer so I manoeuvred my massive bump into the front seat of the car and we drove in.
As usual – even in between contractions – we had a row about the parking. He’d assumed I’d put change for the meter in my hospital bag because I’d said I had ‘everything’. Idiot. I obviously meant everything for me and the baby.
Once we were in, things really started to happen, and not in that breathing-calmly-and-thinking-of-your-precious-baby way. There were internal examinations (basically being fingered multiple times by women I don’t even know), soft belts stretched round my giant tummy to monitor her heart rate, gas and air (to ‘take the edge off’ – ha!) and a lot of vomit. A few people feel sick on gas and air and, lucky for me, I fell into that bracket.
It was a mess. I was a mess. I really wanted to be one of those women who does it so well. Who ‘bears down’ and births a beautiful pink baby and then looks up at her husband glowing with contentment, as they hold the bundle.
After four more hours of contractions so painful I wanted to smash my fists into the walls, it was time to push. By this point I’d had so many drugs I felt completely spaced out and alone. It was like I was really far away from everyone and couldn’t communicate it.
After an hour of pushing, my incredibly young-looking midwife suggested I needed ‘a little help’. Forceps. Huge metal salad tongs to be shoved up my vagina to ‘help’ me get baby out. I vaguely remember not caring. You’d think you would care about that kind of thing, but I’ve never felt desperation like this before so I garbled something about ‘do whatever the fuck you want sorry for swearing ow ow fuck get her ouuutttt’, and in they went.
The next few minutes were a blur. There was pain and people and not a shred of dignity, but then all of a sudden, Lyla was in the world.
Her slimy little body was put on my chest and I realised I was holding my daughter. A brand new life that I had made and delivered, just lying there on my chest.
For a moment she was the youngest thing in the whole wide world. I felt like we were a team. She’d been in there all that time, and now I was holding her on the outside, protecting her from the cool air with my hands and bit of hospital gown … my precious baby.
Everyone says you forget. But I don’t want to forget, which is why I’m writing this now. It’s 3.07 a.m. The house is silent. Simon is sleeping – lucky him – and my tiny baby girl is snuffling in her cot next to me. I look at her. I could gaze at her for hours.
They say you feel an instant rush of love, but that’s not how I’d describe it. Love to me is soft and kind and warm. I felt a rush of ferocity. If anyone, at any point, were to try and hurt this perfect child of mine, I’d kill them. I felt instantly protective, and like it doesn’t matter what happens to me; I’ll take care of her.
I look up from the pages. I did do it.
And I can do this.
I quickly gather everything to put it all back in the box. I’ll look through them properly later when I’m not seizing the day. Just before I pack it away, right at the very bottom I spot an old card with a heart on the front from Simon saying Happy Six Months Ro-Ro, Love you forever, Simon xxx. Wow. That stings.
I DON’T REMEMBER MEETING Simon Dessens – he has been in my life forever. Our mums were friends from the community centre where they worked, so we’d played together since we were Lyla’s age. Our mums jointly managed bookings for the events or clubs, handled the petty cash, stocked the kitchen with coffee, teabags, sugar and milk and looked after the keys and alarms. They both took great pride in organising the summer fete, and despite their smiles and their florals, they were deeply competitive. The way they talked about it when we were little you’d think they were running the United Nations. Simon and I (increasingly grudgingly as we got older) helped serve refreshments to the old age pensioners at their social clubs and tidied away the chairs from the Weight Watchers’ meetings.
By the time we were sixteen, we were in love. Both quite shy kids who lived under the rule of our overbearing mothers, we were kind of each other’s security blanket, and felt a connection. Obviously at sixteen you rarely understand yourself, let alone the complexities of deep, proper relationships, and so we felt it imperative to go to the same university as each other. We stayed relatively local and graduated from Warwick, he with a 2.2 in Geography and me with a 2.1 in Communications and Media. Clearly you don’t know what on earth you want to do with your life at eighteen, when you pick your degree! I went to an evening course in make-up artistry on the side, and enjoyed it so much more than the education I spent my studen loan on. At the request of our empty-nest-suffering parents we moved back to Cambridge, and by twenty-two I was pregnant with Lyla. I was working as a freelance make-up artist doing weddings or am-dram shows and Simon’s dad secured him a steady desk job at a local factory that made drill bits, so we had an income and we could pay the rent on our tiny two-up, two-down terrace.
In our young, blissful ignorance we decided we could manage a baby, and so we were happy. Despite our ages and lack of life experience, our mums were thrilled too; everyone loves the idea of a baby. Though I think my mum was more excited to show her Rotary Club ladies the two-piece baby sets she’d bought in John Lewis than anything else. We had our whole lives mapped out for us, and I was OK with that. What more could a girl want?
One weekend, about four months into the pregnancy, Simon took us off for a romantic trip away. Think moonlit cobblestones, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance and the aroma of authentic French cuisine gently wafting past us, inviting us in to eat and laugh and lock eyes as we fell deeper and deeper in love. Ha! How hilarious. Stop thinking about that, and now imagine a damp tent in the freezing early spring on a mediocre Lake District campsite and that’s where we’re at. Throw in a greasy fry-up in the site café, me looking like a dweeb in waterproofs borrowed from Mum and you’ve painted yourself a picture of reality. Not quite the lust-filled flair of a European city break. Pair the cold and damp with a constant feeling of nausea (why they call it ‘morning sickness’ when it lasts all day is beyond me) and you don’t have the most incredible picture of love, do you? Still, on the second day, after a two-hour trek through the beautiful, if slightly grey, scenery, Simon got down on one knee and proposed.
I looked down at him in his wind-resistant anorak and sensible glasses and knew the right thing to do was say yes. The right thing, not the knee-trembling, holy-fuck-I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening thing. I knew – or thought I knew – he’d look after me and the baby for all of our lives. We would do our weekly food shop on a Monday, have a takeaway on a Friday and if we were feeling completely crazy, have a glass of wine on a Saturday night. He was never going to bolt, never going to upset the applecart. He was a safe bet and a decent man. I loved him. So I said yes.
Fast-forward two years, and my safe bet felt very dull, much more dull than I’d anticipated. Not only was I bored of Simon, Simon was bored of me. Lyla had come along after hours and hours of excruciating and sweaty labour during the hottest week of the summer, and we’d been thrown into a sleep-deprived world of stinky nappies, soiled breast pads, car seats so hard to figure out you practically need an Enigma machine, and pureed food. I’d never felt less sexy. I stopped taking on artistry jobs and lost myself in motherhood. I’d so wanted to be one of those yummy mummies who glides about in soft-stretch skinny jeans and floaty bohemian tops with chunky, wooden-bead necklaces and kind eyes. I’d wanted more than anything to have a gaggle of mummy friends to sit in cafés with on sunny mornings and chat about the funny things our doting husbands had said earlier that morning as we’d kissed them goodbye for work. As with a lot of things I’d discovered, expectation doesn’t usually meet with reality and in fact life felt rather bleak. I found it hard to get out of the house with all the things you needed to pack, feeds to do and naps to time, let alone make a handful of glamorous mother friends for morning coffee dates. Early on into motherhood I gave up hoping for all that and resigned myself to our comfortable routine complete with daily scrambled-egg sandwiches and walks to the duck pond, just the two of us. It was lonely. So, so lonely. Despite the obvious, I really felt like I was the only person in the world looking after a baby, had nobody to talk to and felt as if one day just merged into another, with the only break being Simon coming home in the evening and watching his documentaries. Looking back, I think this was the start of The Emptiness. My mum ‘didn’t want to interfere’, so Kath was a real saviour back then, stopping by for regular visits and filling the fridge with goodies.
Simon climbed the career ladder at the factory, and became deputy manager of the office there. We had nothing in common, nothing to talk about, nothing to love together, except Lyla. Our perfect Lyla Blue Wilde. Since we still hadn’t tied the knot – it’s hard to find any enthusiasm to plan a wedding when you’re covered in spat-up milk and your fiancé barely speaks to you – she had my surname. We said that when we finally did make it down the aisle we’d change it to his.
Our relationship ended ages before he left. Had we not had Lyla, I think we would naturally have drifted apart as we grew up; I don’t think he’d have proposed. We just weren’t the same teenagers any more, banding together against our tyrannical mothers. Simon wanted to knuckle down at the office and have a perfect family with three more children, and I had just become a shell, forgetting my identity and turning into a bit of a mummy zombie; a ‘mumbie’. I don’t think I’d really worked out who I was before I had Lyla – I was so young – so it was hard to hold on to any of that when I spent all my days at home or at mind-numbing baby groups, doing my best for Lyla but not managing to reach out and make friends with any of the other mums. It’s hard to admit it, but I think I was suffering with postnatal depression. I didn’t dare talk to anybody about it, and didn’t go to see my doctor in case she thought I was the worst mother on the planet, and so I did my best to muddle through and hide it all. Over time, and with a lot of chat in the mum forums (they were the most social thing about my day), I started to feel clearer and better again. I actually think those strangers on a forum were the ones who pulled me out of it, who made me feel like I wasn’t alone and sinking into an empty void. I wish I could find them and thank them.
Seeing these baby pictures now, of the three of us all smiling at the camera and me hiding deep sadness, I wish I’d spoken out, got better sooner and allowed myself to enjoy Lyla’s early months a bit more. I wish I was enjoying now a bit more too.
When Lyla was about sixteen months old, just before Christmas, Simon’s dad was involved in a car crash which left him with two broken legs and a dislocated hip. It was terrible. His mother struggled to cope with his care after he left hospital – although being a proud woman she’d never admit it – and we spent a lot of time helping them both get back on their feet again. It affected Simon more deeply than we thought something could. His perfect, mundane, plod-along world had suddenly been violently shaken and he cracked. Something inside him snapped, and after applying for a three-month sabbatical from work he decided he needed to travel, see the world and experience life properly for the first time. And he wanted to do it alone.
He left us in May for a backpacking trip around Tibet. It was the most un-Simon thing he’d ever done, and I didn’t think I minded. By this point I was so numb that I didn’t have the fight in me to mind. I just let life wash over me while I cut up apples and gave baths and kept Lyla going. I remember Lacey being absolutely furious with him. ‘Imagine if you wanted to fuck off to Tibet! You’d never be able to go! You’d never leave your baby! What a selfish prick.’ As she ranted about Simon, I’d just hold Lyla and nod. I was so exhausted I didn’t have much else to give. Having had these years to reflect, Lacey’s point seems pretty clear. I never did get to just take my time and run with it. And I’d never have left Lyla. Ever.
I realise, looking back through these memories, just how much I need to ask Natalie for more regular work; I deserve to do what I want for the first time in I don’t know how many years. I am going to talk to her today.
Back then I thought a break would do Simon and me good. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. Kath came over almost every day and I started to make regular trips out with Lacey, going shopping or to Dovington’s or even for morning coffee dates. Then Lacey introduced me to her neighbour, Natalie, and after a trial run she put me on her books to assist her on shoots. I suddenly had a purpose that wasn’t just making up bottles or feeding the ducks. I was going out alone and doing something I was good at – and Kath absolutely loved the opportunity to babysit more. We even built up a routine so I could have a night out with Lacey once a fortnight. I felt a little spark of myself come back – and I hadn’t even needed to don a backpack.
Simon was finding himself too. Except he didn’t just find himself – he also found Caroline, a nineteen-year-old masseuse from Peterborough who prefers to be called Storie (‘with an I and an E, please’). She’d travelled to Tibet to find her earth mother, Nature. Simon said he felt a ‘powerful, natural connection’ to Storie during a hilltop retreat, and that Storie (with an ‘ie’) had convinced him it would be going against Mother Nature’s intent if they were to ignore it.
Surprisingly, I didn’t care as much as I thought I would. Over the summer I’d come out of my shell. Not by much, but enough to feel alive again, and I realised it was better without him. I had learnt that I didn’t actually need him to look after Lyla, or to have a social life. I was starting to earn a bit of money, starting to get out and about and being more than just ‘Mummy’. We’d separated by the autumn, moved out of our rented terrace and arranged a fairly flexible custody schedule for Lyla.
Dad and Auntie Kath had moved my ailing granny into a lovely facility for the elderly, and so the logical thing for me to do was to rent her house. It was perfect for us: the rent was low, I was able to stay in the area and it had a familiar warmth to it, which is just what I needed in those early single days. That’s how special Kath is. Even though I’m not her daughter, she treats me like one and didn’t resent Lyla and me being given such a wonderful gift. Sadly the same could not be said for my own mother. Rather than offering to come and stay with me to help, she asked me what had I done, where had I gone wrong in the relationship, for Simon to have ‘run off with some young floozy’. My mum, Mrs Wilde, the least supportive woman in my life. She still hasn’t forgiven me.
Simon moved in with Storie to a home with solar panels, dreamcatchers and a biodiverse vegetable patch in lieu of a garden, and they are very happy there. Storie isn’t a bad person, she’s just very different to me, and in fact to Simon, which is probably why they work so well. Opposites supposedly attract, after all.
Flicking through the rest of the memories in my shell box and clicking the lid closed, I feel a sense of satisfaction. None of those memories hurt me like they used to. They’re not personal attacks reducing me to tears and anxiety; they’re just bits of my story, and today, I’m moving on with it.
TAKING A MINUTE TO look around at what I’ve achieved this morning, I feel a surge of real joy.
I’ve never let go of any of the stuff in the cupboard under the stairs because I would have felt like I was letting go of Lyla’s babyhood, my life with Simon, the family I’d thought I was meant to have. All these things felt like mementos or trophies of an era, but now, strewn around the lounge on their side or upside down, they just look like bits of plastic I’m ready to say goodbye to.
And the cupboard looks absolutely massive!
I spend the next couple of hours with kitchen roll and Dettol, wiping everything down and stacking it more carefully in the hall. One by one I take each piece into the front room, snap it on my phone, list it on eBay and put it back in the hall. With each thing I list, I feel motivated to do more. I’ve been putting this job off for years, and doing it feels deeply cleansing, not just for the cupboard but for my mind.
By lunchtime I’m done.
The baby bits are cleaned, listed and stacked, the everyday use things are back in the cupboard and, hurrah hurrah, I’ve dragged my plastic drawer units under the stairs too, so – at last – I have a proper place to store my make-up artist kit. Now I have more room to organise and display it (this is an upgrade from the top shelf of my wardrobe!), and it takes no time at all to put it all away and take stock of what I actually have.
I put the memory box safely at the back of the cupboard, and pad into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I feel great. I did something. I did it by myself, for myself. A little piece of The Emptiness falls away. Sipping my tea, I decide to take the plunge, harness this new-found energy and force myself into the gym.
Now I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no gym bunny. I’m a healthy normal size but I have the fitness levels of a slug. A slug after it’s slithered over the blue salt pellets. A slug after it’s slithered over the blue salt pellets, has died and been pecked at a bit by birds.
I manage ten minutes on the treadmill, ten on the bike, ten on the cross-trainer machine of death and call it a day. I went into the room of torture and moved about. That counts. I ‘worked out’.
My favourite bit of any gym experience (of which I have about four to choose from) is the changing room.
I luxuriate on the squishy stools at the mirrors and delve into my make-up bag, taking time with each process, doing my brows gently and carefully, fully buffing in my foundation and blending my eyeshadow until it looks like light and dark merging seamlessly into each other. Finally I apply the purple orchid-coloured lipstick I never wear. I want to play with it all the time but always tell myself it’s not worth it; today’s not special enough, or I’m not in a good enough place to deserve it. Well, I feel different somehow: the day feels different, I’ve turned a chapter in not letting my memories overcome me and I am worth it. I guide the coloured bullet of the make-up over my lips and instantly my face looks vibrant. I feel it too. I am vibrant.
I’m not the drudgery of my lonely days. I am the vivid colour of my lipstick. I’m worth good make-up and skinny jeans and time at the gym. I’m worth the extra space in my cupboards. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the low fog of The Emptiness, and feel a spark of excitement. Like the first snowdrops in spring, can I feel myself coming back?
I collect Lyla from school, Val watched me with narrow eyes as I said a confident ‘good afternoon’ to Mrs Barnstorm and looked away when I nodded hello to her. I took hold of Lyla’s hand and walked out with my head held high, and we spend a lovely afternoon dancing round the lounge to that same ‘Motivation’ playlist, eating spaghetti and snuggling to CBeebies. I feel so much better today that I don’t even mind the mind-numbing children’s songs or surreal characters of In the Night Garden.
At bedtime Lyla says to me, ‘Mummy, I love it when you’re so bouncy.’
Me too, baby, me too.