Pamela (who also happens to be the founder of Polka Dot and its major shareholder) has tried to keep out of the office most of the time, wanting to believe her son knows what he’s doing. But we can all tell she’s worried the company will go down, even with people like Alice working here. Thankfully, this not being one of Pamela’s rare visiting days, I managed to get my head down and do work for most of the day; at lunchtime I had to get out of the office, so took my sandwich round the corner to window shop, and found myself in front of the giant Topshop on Oxford Street, facing the maternity wear entrance.
They had some lovely clothes. Gorgeous slim-fitting jeans with fatty pregna-panels in the sides, fabulous tops to show off pregna-busts and delicious high-waisted dresses. Not to mention the mini-me baby clothes: t-shirts and sweaters with the wildlife of the season embroidered on the front, so the infant can be just as sharp as the mother. Could I live like this? Is there hope? I started walking back to the office feeling better, feeling hopeful. Maybe we could do this. It’s not the seventies anymore: I wouldn’t have to wear huge frilly tents and give up my job. I could be like Rachida Dati, returning to work at the French government five days after having this baby. Only, not the French government. And not five days. Women do this all over the world, all the time. And this wouldn’t just be my baby. It would be Thom’s as well. And who’s going to make a better baby than me and Thom?
So I went to the beautiful stationery shop below our office and bought this diary. I had a sudden urge to keep a record of everything, all our decisions and mistakes and joys. It felt like the first good step in a long road ahead. But I felt good.
Then I left the shop and almost tripped over a woman screaming at her child.
Woman: Didn’t I tell you, Nicholas? Didn’t I say no?
Boy: [incoherent screaming]
Woman: No, don’t keep crying. Pull yourself together and answer me.
Boy: [screaming, but down a notch or two] I … want …
Woman: Nicholas, if you don’t behave right now, not only will Daddy be hearing about this, but you can forget about your skiing lesson with Joshua on Saturday.
Boy: [silent for a moment, weighing up the options, screams recommencing even higher and louder than before]
Woman: [crouching down next to him] Please, Nicholas, please, darling, just calm yourself down. What it is you’d like, Nicky?
Boy: [sensing his advantage, ups the screaming again]
Woman: Calm down, darling. You know Mummy loves you. Calm down. Shall we go back to the shop to get you the little car?
Boy: [pulling back the screams a little] Ye-ea-aah – [hiccupping sob]
Woman: Alright, darling. You were very good last night, weren’t you? You only got out of bed four times! I think you deserve a nice little treat, don’t you, darling?
Wait. I’d forgotten. OH GOD I hate children.
So my mood overall was unchanged this afternoon, and when I came home. Thom saw my face and pulled me into another big hug as I walked through the door, and took me to the sofa where he sat me down and smiled at me.
Thom: Do you know what I thought today, as I tried to convince a room full of thirteen-year-olds to not show one another photos of women’s breasts while I talked about Jane Eyre?
Me: Nope.
Thom: Whether it’s now, or whether it’s in a few years: our kid is going to be brilliant.
Me: Ha! I thought the same thing today. Just before I stumbled over a woman being emotionally blackmailed by her four-year-old.
Thom: You know we don’t have to be like that, don’t you? You can pick your parenting style: we can be Aloof Edwardian Parents. Or Distant Army Parents, who only see their children once a year. Or Caveman Parents, who feed any spare kids to their pet dinosaur.
Me: That’s the Flintstones.
Thom: I hardly think the Flintstones would feed a child to a dinosaur.
Me: [silence, thinking] We could be alright as parents. Maybe.
Thom: Maybe we could. But maybe … you’re too chicken to have a baby.
Me: [laughing] If ever that ploy was going to work on me …
Thom: Kiki, we will do whatever you like. For now, I’ll make us something to eat.
I sat, and I thought. God, if we can deal with Thom’s redundancy and Dad’s heart attack and my previously-very-badly-paid-and-very-high-stress job, all while planning a wedding that took over our lives, we should be able to manage a baby. Thom’s baby. And we might just be OK parents.
Me: [calling to the kitchen] Go on, then. Let’s have a baby.
Thom: [running back in] Wooohoooo!
Me: You can’t make noises like that in a labour ward. And I’m not telling my mum.
Thom: Christ. We have to tell people about this, don’t we?
Together: Shotgun!
Me: I called it. You can tell them.
So I’m happy. But I still blame you, Paris. I don’t know how this is your fault, but it is.
TO DO:
Grow baby
Have baby
Raise baby
November’s Classic Baby
Mrs Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books perfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a Brussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped out, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without faces. She drew them when she should have been totting up. They were Mrs Darling’s guesses.
Wendy came first, then John, then Michael.
For a week or two after Wendy came it was doubtful whether they would be able to keep her, as she was another mouth to feed. Mr Darling was frightfully proud of her, but he was very honourable, and he sat on the edge of Mrs Darling’s bed, holding her hand and calculating expenses, while she looked at him imploringly. She wanted to risk it, come what might, but that was not his way; his way was with a pencil and a piece of paper, and if she confused him with suggestions he had to begin at the beginning again.
Peter Pan
J. M. Barrie
November 2nd
I’ve spent the last two days at work doing internet searches for pregnancy, then shutting my screen off whenever somebody comes near my desk. Even Carol – our terrifying but secretly incredibly sweet senior Commissioning Editor, who, after a sordid and very exciting office affair, is now with Norman, our reserved head of accounts – has started giving me concerned looks. But I’ve discovered that the ‘classic wedding’ emails I signed up for during the wedding
