Sam Binnie - The Baby Diaries

But then I get excited again. A baby, with Thom. Not that I even like babies – I really don’t, not at all – but it’s exciting, to be doing something so different, so wonderful, so creative, and to have this massive responsibility and to be sharing it with Thom. What an honour. This is the most wonderful thing. And then I think: a baby. Jesus. Not a baby Jesus, but a baby nonetheless. And one that I imagine will do a hell of a lot more crying than the one we have to thank for Christmas. How the hell are we going to cope with that?

And then the nausea comes back.

We spent tonight watching some belated fireworks from a pub window with Jim (a session musician and source of great kindness, and my oldest friend besides Eve) and Poppy, the girl he brought to our wedding and who seems like a keeper. I sat sipping an apple juice (‘Sorry, I’ve been feeling rough all week’) and trying to steady my stomach and absorb the letter from Dr Bedford this morning, confirming the date for the twelve-week scan. Thom’s got permission from school to go in late, and I’ll tell Polka I’m editing from home that day. I can’t stop thinking about it. Something about that scan will make it real, rather than just a distant To Do. And I’m sure it’s going to be much harder to keep up my heroin habit afterwards. Joke .

TO DO:

Start reading any of those pamphlets Dr Bedford gave me

I got a letter today from the local team of midwives. Ah, the things you never thought you’d find out: who even knew there was a local team of midwives? A team sounds good, though. Like a team of crime-fighters. I hope they have cool uniforms, at least. The letter said that I had an appointment with them next week at the local hospital, and came wrapped around six different leaflets – what I should be eating, how I should be feeling, what’s going to be taken from me (blood and urine) and what’s going to be given (more information). I find it’s most helpful to write the appointment in my diary, tuck the whole thing safe at the back of my drawer, and just not think about it again. Note: this may not work when the actual baby is born.

Mum came over tonight to drop off some photos from our wedding (oh, how recent that seemed) and I thought she’d guess instantly when I was lying on the sofa, grey-faced and sipping water with a lemon in.

Mum: Hello darling, are you ill?

Me: My stomach. I think it’s a bug.

Mum: Oh, that’s awful. Have you had some plain toast?

Me: [trying not to retch at the thought] No, I don’t really …

Mum: Well, it’s the best thing for you.

Me: I know, but it’s not what my stomach wants right now.

Mum: Kiki, I think you’re being very silly; a nice piece of dry toast is exactly the kind of thing you should be eating if you want to feel any better. Is it something going round?

Me: [burping, a precursor to vomiting]

Thom: She’s been a bit sick all day, it might be better if we let her rest for a while.

Mum: [voice almost cracking] You’re being ridiculous! If you don’t want to feel better –

Thom: I’ll get her some toast later. I think she’s just a bit tired at the moment.

Mum: [grumpily] Well I shan’t kiss you, in case it’s catching and I give it to your father.

Thom: [sniggering]

Me: [faintly] Alright Mum. Thanks for the photos.

Mum: That’s perfectly alright. See you soon!

And she was gone. We both felt such relief, even though she is incredibly kind (sometimes) and did do a huge amount towards saving our wedding from disaster: but her attentions can be a little much, and if she’d kept saying the word toast I would definitely have been sick in front of her. And she seemed even more tense than usual – surely she wouldn’t care that much about my toast intake normally? Plus, we definitely don’t want to tell anyone until we’ve had the first scan. It still doesn’t seem real.

Ah, crazy hormones. Yesterday I got home from work and, in a brief respite from nausea, pounced on Thom, then fell straight to sleep to a night of the filthiest dreams I have ever had. I can’t even name some of the people who featured for fear of this diary ever falling into the wrong hands, but it was … well, I’m not surprised I was more tired this morning than when I went to bed.

Thom remembered the Diary today – last Christmas he’d given me a diary for the year, with trips and treats every month. Last month he’d dug me out a perfect Marion Ravenwood costume (wicker-basket-Marion, not Nazi-tent-Marion) for Halloween, and in return I found him a Captain Sharpe costume (yes, I know, Thom Sharpe, Captain Sharpe, I am exactly that imaginative); the combination of which resulted in us arriving slightly late, but very cheerful, to the party.

This month, the treat was simply Tickets . November seemed so far off when Thom arranged it all last Christmas that he couldn’t book anything, leaving it instead up to our whims of the moment. Right now, I didn’t know what I wanted – a gig? Theatre? A film? An exhibition? That is, until Thom suggested a swap.

Thom: You don’t have to go for this. But you know you’re only allowed the treat within the month – there are no rollovers.

Me: Where was this written down?

Thom: [taps side of his head] So, here’s your alternative. I go out, right now, and get you six ice-cold bottles of ginger beer, a jumbo bag of salted vegetable crisps, aaaand … [holding up his hands]

Me: A can – no, make it two; two cans of corned beef.

Thom: [shuddering] Whatever milady requires. So what do you say? Is it a swap?

We agreed to the swap, as I’m in no fit state to be going anywhere at the moment. But I did enjoy my strange, protein-heavy meal this evening immensely .

Drinks with Eve tonight, my oldest, most difficult, but potentially-most-reformed friend (since meeting wonderful baker Mike, she’s developed a taste for not being a terrible human). Or rather, it was supposed to be drinks, but I changed it to a trip to the Wellcome Collection as I couldn’t face Eve giving me suspicious side-eyes when I wasn’t drinking. So we met outside, hugged, and headed in.

Me: [narrowing eyes at her, suspicious] You look very well.

Eve: [narrowing eyes too] So do you.

Me: My goodness, is Mike still making you incredibly happy? Goodness. He is, isn’t he? You love him.

Eve: I might. Do you know what it is, though? I just don’t see good-looking men anymore.

Me: Maybe it’s because you’re so in love.

Eve: [mock-concerned] No, I think my eyesight’s getting worse. I really need to see a doctor.

Me: Optician. And I don’t imagine they’ll be able to help with what you’ve got.

Eve: Syphilis?

Me: Wow. You old romantic.

Eve: But speaking of which …

She was right. We were right in front of a huge display of sexually transmitted diseases, complete with moving structures to illustrate the ravages of each one.

Eve: You sure know how to show a girl a good time.

Me: You just wait. There’s a mummified woman upstairs.

Eve: Woop!

As always, we linked arms and strolled around; Eve telling me about Mike and her work (particularly her terrible new boss, Joyce: ‘She couldn’t manage a ball downhill’) and me mostly listening, asking questions, and telling her a little bit about my family. Family . The whole time we were talking, I was just thinking, ‘Don’t mention you’re pregnant, don’t mention you’re pregnant,’ to the point where I was amazed she couldn’t read it behind my eyes whenever she looked at me. I even forced myself to loiter by the cabinet upstairs filled with tiny ceramic models of pregnant women with detachable stomachs, revealing miniature ceramic babies inside, just so Eve wouldn’t suspect anything in my avoidance of it. ‘That’ll be you, soon,’ Eve whispered in my ear, coming up behind me. I laughed manically, trying to turn it into a fake laugh, but only succeeding in sounding even more suspicious.