Nappy Rot

“I read somewhere that you lose 3 per cent of you brain volume while pregnant.”
Anne Enright, Making Babies, Stumbling into Motherhood

You’ve been trying to ignore it but the fact is something strange has happened to your brain. Without you noticing, it seems to have shrunk to the point where you have become an imbecile. Perhaps it’s something to do with breastfeeding: the baby is literally sucking the sense out of you, draining the brain’s lubricant away, turning your thinking tackle into a dried up old lump of grey stodge. Or maybe it’s been so long that you were approached for advice, since anyone canvassed your opinion on anything outside the domestic realm, that the synapses have rusted up. In any case, it becomes clear when Manchild is writing a job application that something is amiss.

“That’s weird,” he says, staring at the computer monitor.

“What?” you ask, shifting baby from one boob to the other.

“How do you spell ‘obstensively‘? It keeps getting highlighted on the spellchecker.”

“Let me see.” You scan the word, the sentence, the context and are equally baffled. “Looks fine. Get the dictionary.”

He goes upstairs and brings down the hefty brick. You hand him the baby while you flick through.

“Gosh, that is weird,” you conclude. “‘Obstensively’ isn’t listed in the dictionary. You look at each other in confusion. It takes a while for the penny to drop.

“Hang on, it’s ‘ostensively’, not ‘obstensively’,” you announce, relieved that your intelligence and insight are still intact. You flick forward a couple of pages and run your finger down the margins.

“Oh, erm… well, nearly right. Mmmm,” you trail off. “Well, it’s here. That’s the spelling.

‘Ostensibly’. Is that what you were looking for?”

“Can you look up something else while you’re at it?”

“What’s that then?”

“Nappy rot. A brain disorder. It’s an affliction of the newly parented.”

“Ha, ha. Well, at least it’s not just me that’s got it.”

The Butternut Squash Incident

Even while puréeing veg for the baby and simultaneously scouring your Annabel Karmel cookbook for delicious meals to entertain your children’s palates, you'd half-suspected that they’d end up eating toast and yoghourt again. But that didn't stop you busting a gut in the kitchen in your unrelenting attempts at Trying To Be A Good Mother. Scanning the pages of Annabel's beautifully photographed creations, you’d been seduced by the pictures of a scrummy-looking butternut squash risotto. No child could resist butternut squash, Annabel assured you, not even a ‘fussy eater’ like your firstborn. So you’d decided to go for it, hacked away at the skin, chopped the flesh up into cubes as per instructions, followed the recipe to the letter. MC had even taken the children out for a walk so you could concentrate on recreating this culinary masterpiece. You’d hovered over the pan, stirring the rice, making sure there was enough water. You’d nurtured that dish, tended to it, brought it to life. And when you’d presented it to your children? Child #1 had tried one spoonful and instantly spat it out. Child # 2 wouldn’t even look at it and instead used the back of his hand to remove it swiftly from his high chair with one careless flick.

That was the first and last time you attempted to cook à la Annabel.

Your Birth Story - Flashback

“They say men can never experience the pain of childbirth… they can if you hit them in the goolies with a cricket bat … for fourteen hours.” Jo Brand

You are beginning to doze off when you something wakes you with a jolt. You’re suddenly wide awake and realise you’re sweating and your heart’s beating like the clappers. You were having a flashback. Remembering the delivery room, the harsh lights, the jumble of people coming and going. The paediatrician, standing by the resuscitation machine, looking impatiently at his watch as yet another push failed to produce the baby’s head. The doctor between your legs, her hair askew, losing patience because the ventouse wasn’t attaching properly.

“You’re not pushing hard enough,” she’d snarled. “If you don’t get on with it I’m going to have to wheel you down the theatre for a Caesarean.” Her threat held no impact for you. Legs up in stirrups, exhausted and running out of steam, you had little say in the proceedings in any case. You winced as she inserted the ventouse contraption; it felt like she was pushing a cardboard tube up inside you. “Stop it, you can’t feel anything, you’ve had an epidural,” she’d scolded. But epidural or not, you could feel it, it was uncomfortable and wasn’t working. Finally she’d looked at you and sighed.

“What about forceps?” you suggested, trying to be helpful.
“All right, I’ll try, but I’ll have to cut you. That’s the first failed ventouse delivery I’ve had in fourteen years.” Tutting, she’d reached for oversize pliers and set to work.
“Wait for the next contraction and push as hard as you can!” You’re not sure but you think you might be having a contraction so you do as you’re told.

There are more midwives appearing in the room. It’s early morning now and the new shift has arrived. Eight nurses and two doctors chant “Push!”, “Come on, you can do it!”, “Keep going!” “Down in your bottom!” The noise is deafening, like the roar at a football match. And a cheer goes up: “It’s a girl!” She’s out, her head, then her body and the doctor flops her onto your stomach. In your woozy state, you can only say, “Oh, my God” because you’re thinking “Where did she come from?” The baby lying on you seems unconnected to the hideous and traumatic ordeal that you’ve just been through. You realise you’re crying and tell MC to check her over. Is it definitely a girl? Is she OK? Is she OK? Have you counted her fingers and toes? He doesn’t answer and you look up and see why; he’s crying too.

You seem to cry a lot after that. If anyone asks you if you’re OK, you cry. You can’t help it. You cry because you’re so annoyed with yourself; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Your carefully thought out birth plan specifically requested low lights, a peaceful atmosphere and a smorgasbord of pain relief options you'd hoped you wouldn't need - nowhere in there did it say anything about wanting sarcastic doctors and noisy crowds.

Your mother comes to visit and asks if she can hold the baby. She’s alarmed by the huge red weeping sore on her head where they took blood gas samples, the swelling inflicted by the ventouse and the red welts left by the prongs of the forceps. That’s enough to set you off again. You cry for yourself and for every woman who has ever given birth.