‘No, I mean, being so involved in the baby shower must be hard because you and Ethan still haven’t …’
It’s no secret we’re trying for a baby. Supposed to be trying. It is a secret that a year into my marriage I thought I was pregnant. The test was positive. I was happy, but scared too, because who actually wants to go through labour? I thought Ethan would be delighted, but when I told him, he turned grey and said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just not the right time for us.’ Then listed all the reasons it wasn’t the right time for him. ‘I’m working towards a promotion at work, we haven’t moved into our “forever” home yet, we have a trip to the Maldives coming up in a few months. We could really do without this right now, Ada. Maybe we should talk about termination and try for another later down the line.’ He spoke as if the pregnancy were another of his business meetings that could be rescheduled. So I wasn’t surprised by his clear sense of relief when I went to the doctor and their test was negative.
I was very down in the months that followed. Ruby stepped in, dragging me out of the house and whisking me away for a spa weekend. She wasn’t even mad I cancelled half the treatments she’d paid for, instead curling up in the fluffy robe and crying in our room. She kept saying, ‘You’ll have a baby one day. I know you will.’
What she didn’t realise was that I wasn’t grieving for the pregnancy, but for the man I thought I’d married. It was the first time I realised how selfish Ethan is. I never told you this because I’ve always felt we are in a never-ending game of tennis with each other. Admitting my marriage isn’t perfect would be like deliberately scoring a double fault.
‘It’s fine. I’ve loved organising the shower,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m happy for you and Tom.’
Then she was gone, pulling out her phone and snapping photos for her feed because a large portion of Ruby’s life is dedicated to proving to people that she has one, and it is worthy of jealousy. Not that I can throw stones, since, as a woman without a career or children, so much effort is poured into curating the perfect life. Your house must always be pristine because if not, people will wonder what the fuck else you do with your time. Your hosting skills must be tip-top; guests’ glasses should never be empty – like radio, there should never be dead air – and every aspect of the meals you serve must be impeccable because if not, people will wonder what the fuck else you do with your time. Your marriage must be loving and fun, but also meaningful, and you must make sure others know your marriage is loving and fun, but also meaningful, because if not, people will wonder what the fuck else you do with your time. It’s important to note they must know about your fun, loving but also meaningful marriage without you shoving it in their face like a cream pie. It is a pie to be smelt and displayed on a window ledge and admired.
And while you’re doing all this, you must stick to some very strict rules: you must not be too thin (women will gossip about your eating disorder) or too fat (women will bitch about all your baby-free, job-free time and how if they had all that baby-free, job-free time, they’d be doing Joe Wicks’ workouts every morning). You must not be too loud (leave that to the men and the pint-drinking women of the world) or too quiet (that’s for the knitters and the downtrodden wives which you are not, remember, because your marriage is fun and loving but also meaningful). Don’t be too clever (you didn’t go to university and get that post-grad job) but don’t be too thick either (even though they suspect you might be a little dim, you barren, degree-less, stay-at-home wife).
In the corner, Uncle Gregory was having a quiet word with Mum. She dabbed at her eyes and he pulled her into a hug. They were talking about you in the last few minutes it was allowed. You see, even though we have more questions than ever, we’d agreed on a blanket ban regarding your disappearance for Ruby’s shower because this was her special day and smudging it with grief and anxiety wasn’t fair. So, by the time the guests arrived, Uncle Gregory and Mum were smiling widely, though Mum’s seemed stitched on. She didn’t look well – thinner, paler, older.
Uncle Gregory and the other husbands declared they were going to the pub to wet the baby’s head, departing the house in the loud, collective noise that is exclusive only to men. Meanwhile, the women talked happily and endlessly about their children, and I thought, I bet our male counterparts don’t utter a word about breastmilk or nipple cream.
Two hours into the party and I’d learned a lot about mothers.
1. You cannot mention you are tired in front of them because their retort will always be the same. ‘You’re not tired. You won’t know “tired” until you have a baby.’
2. They complain endlessly about never getting a moment to themselves. ‘Oh, I haven’t been able to pee alone since the children.’
3. Every negative comment they make about their offspring, ‘Isabel had colic for the first few months, she drove us crazy,’ is followed by darty eyes and a knee-jerk positive to fend off the judgement from other parents that they are a subpar mother. ‘But she’s really advanced for her age. Everyone says so.’
4. They bitch about their post-baby bodies. ‘My nipples haven’t been the same since breastfeeding, but breast is best! Yes, I’m struggling to shift the baby weight but who doesn’t pick off the kids’ plates? It’s just mum life, you know?’
5. Without you ever asking, they will bestow unto you their terrible birthing experience. ‘I was in labour for thirty-six torturous hours. I tore and had to be stitched back together. And yeah, you will shit yourself. But it’s all worth it.’
And after all this, they will turn to you and ask when you’re having children, and if you’re silly enough to hesitate or suggest maybe you don’t want a brood of your own, they will first look shocked, then appalled, then tell you, ‘Oh, but being a mother is the best job in the world. I didn’t know real love until I had a baby.’
That is what Pushy Mum (her twins have more hobbies than I have fingers) said when the woman with gorgeous coral lipstick, Jennifer, explained that no, she doesn’t have children and no, she wasn’t planning on any in the future. My head snapped up, surprised by her honesty.
What I’ve also learned is mothers can multitask better than the rest of us mere mortals because they will take in your bag-free eyes and your milk-less breasts and your tight, pre-baby body whilst simultaneously envying and pitying you, and they’ll do it with a special brand of mother-only superiority which tells them their way of life is the right way of life and your way of life isn’t.
So when the focus was turned on me and I was asked about the pending status of my uterus, I just smiled and said excitedly, ‘We’ll see.’