Dyan Sheldon - And Baby Makes Two

“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.

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?”

She wasn’t exactly subtle.

“No,” she said. “You don’t.”

I glared. “Well then…”

“ This is what it means to be grown up,” she informed me. “You made your bed, and now you’re going to have to lie in it.”

I didn’t say anything. I hoped she could see in my eyes how much I hated her.

“Though knowing you, I shouldn’t think you actually made the bed first,” said my mother.

After the Spiggs left I got dressed.

I used to look forward to getting dressed in the morning. What mood was I in? What colours should I wear? You know, that sort of thing.

But not any more.

The only mood I was ever in was pregnant. My tummy was as big as a basketball, my breasts were like melons and my bum looked like it was padded. The only good thing about any of this was the breasts. Les was a breast man. He thought my breasts were great this size.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my door.

I didn’t look like Cindy Crawford or Posh Spice. I looked like an inflatable girl that had gone wrong.

Plus, I didn’t have much that really fitted me any more. Stretch jeans and miniskirts aren’t exactly designed for a bulging body. And maternity clothes are. Which means that you might as well wear a dustbin bag with holes cut out for your arms. I’d seen a few pregnant women in dresses that actually showed the bulge, but there was no way I could go to school like that, it was asking for trouble.

I’d blown most of my savings on a maternity dress that was really cool. I found it in this trendy boutique for mothers-to-be. It was a knee-length A-line with a square neck and long sleeves, and an adjustable belt thing that tied high up at the back so you could wear it even after you had the baby. It came in green or blue. I reckoned green might make me look too much like a moving hillock, so I got it in blue. As per usual, Hilary Spiggs went mad when she found out how much I’d paid for it. She wanted me to wear the old junk she brought home. But I looked great in the dress. Only I couldn’t wear it every day, could I? I never wore the same thing twice in a row, unless it was pyjamas. I wasn’t going to let pregnancy force me to drop my standards.