William’s Progress. Matt Rudd
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We still have a bath in the living room. It is still pink. I am sleeping in it.
Sunday 3 March
Isabel’s mum has volunteered to baby-sit for a couple of hours to give us a break. This seems very early in Jacob’s life, but frankly, the thought of two whole hours without a child makes it worth the risk. Isabel has borrowed a breast pump from Caroline. I don’t know how I feel about this. Weird, probably. All the same, it is astonishing how long Isabel’s nipple becomes when she uses the pump. I find myself wondering if the same is true of Caroline’s nipple.
‘Couldn’t we buy our own nipple pump?’
‘I want to try it out first. Some people find they can’t use them. And it’s a breast pump, not a nipple pump.’
‘Right. Doesn’t that hurt?’
‘Yes. Now pack the bags. We need to leave at 12.47 p.m.’
We arrive half an hour late, which is some sort of record. We’ve never done it in under an hour before. Isabel then spends another half an hour filling her mother in on every last detail of Jacob’s life, before handing over the expressed milk. She then asks me to explain how the Bugaboo works to her dad. This is difficult because I don’t fully understand it myself and her dad is too busy giving me a lecture about how, in his day, a pram was a pram, not a designer accoutrement. We then give them nine different emergency numbers and leave.
We are free. And elated. We are late for our lunchtime reservation at our favourite pre-Jacob café, but they have kept our favourite table for us. We order our favourite wine. We smile. We hold hands. And we talk about Jacob. How amazing he is with his little hands and his little eyes and his little smile. How much more amazing he is than all the other children in our baby group with their horrible little hands and pokey little eyes and crooked little smiles. And how lucky we are that he isn’t one of those children that sleeps all day and all night, that although it is, at times, challenging, we are much better off with a child who is expressive.
We are maybe twelve minutes into lunch before I say, ‘Shall we call to check he’s okay?’ and Isabel says, ‘No, he’ll be fine. Mum would call if they were having a problem.’ And it is maybe another seven minutes before Isabel suggests that perhaps a quick call wouldn’t hurt, and it is my turn to pretend I don’t think it is necessary. By the time our main courses have arrived, we have still spoken about nothing but Jacob and can stand it no longer.
‘Hi, Mum. Sorry to call. Just check—…right…right…right. Okay. Speak to you later. Thank you. Bye.’
‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘That sounded bad. Is he all right? Has something happened?’
‘He’s fine. He’s had the milk. He’s had four stories read to him. They’ve taken him for a walk round the block and now he’s asleep. She says there’s no need to rush.’
‘Was it just once round the block?’
‘Yep. Went straight to sleep, she said.’
‘With singing?’
‘Didn’t mention any singing. Now, eat faster and let’s go home and have a cuddle.’
Two things ruined my enjoyment of the remaining time we had free.
First, I could not believe that Jacob had chosen the one time neither of us was looking after him to behave angelically. All the exhaustion, the shuffling through the first two months of parenthood with that haunted, hunted look in our eyes, the desperation, would now seem to Isabel’s parents like we were simply making a meal of things. I could hear it now: ‘Jacob was a little treasure, my darlinks. He is charming. We will look after him again any time.’ Annoying.
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