One damp autumn evening, I realised my belly had become home to a son.
I knew right away it was a son—not, say, a tapeworm—and I took my duties seriously. I fed him vitamins, stuffed myself with calcium, and bravely choked down cod liver oil. My son, ungrateful as he was, expanded my belly to the size of a beach ball within five months. He squirmed. He hiccuped.
I carried my belly like a trophy, accepting congratulations and tangerines—which I ate peel and all, with a delicate, affected smile. Evenings were spent listening to Vivaldi, hiccuping tragically in time with *The Four Seasons*…
By the sixth month, I caught myself licking a slimy pebble plucked from the fish tank. I hadn’t wanted to. My son commanded it.
At seven months, I devoured raw buckwheat by the kilo. My son mocked me.
By eight months, my only options were Granny’s dressing gown and a checked jumpsuit that made me resemble Mrs. Karlsson. My son left me no choice.
At nine months, my feet vanished beneath me. Time of day was measured by the rhythm of his hiccups. My diet—seaweed, raw buckwheat, tangerines with peel, activated charcoal, dry clay meant for face masks, cigarette filters, banana skins. I didn’t cut my hair—old Mrs. Riley from downstairs had croaked that trimming it would shorten his life. I kept my arms down, lest he tangle in the umbilical cord. I let no one drink from my cup. I dutifully shoved in papaverine suppositories—wrong end, but what’s a couple of centimetres?—to stop him arriving early.
I scratched my belly raw, half-expecting it to burst.
I bought him a pram, a cot, twenty-two packs of nappies, a bathtub, a bath stand, antiseptic, cotton wool, sterile wipes, ten bottles, a dozen teats, twenty muslin squares, three blankets, two mattresses, a playpen, a trike, eight bonnets, a mountain of outfits, five towels, twenty babygros, countless vests, shampoo, nappy cream, a wind-relief tube, a snot-sucker, an enema, two hot-water bottles, a toothbrush, a musical mobile, two sacks of rattles, and a yellow potty.
I wheeled the potty around the flat in his pram. I washed and ironed every muslin, every outfit—double-sided—while my mother secretly rang a psychiatrist.
He was due between the 12th of July and the 3rd of August.
On the 12th, I packed two bags. The first held slippers, shower gel, shampoo, a toothbrush, paper, a pen, tissues, a comb, socks, a hair tie, and phone tokens. The second had two muslins, a newborn nappy, a vest, a blue bonnet, a blue rabbit-eared swaddle, a lace-trimmed blanket, and an elephant dummy.
On the 13th, I moved the bags to my bedside.
On the 14th, I bought a stroller and transferred the yellow potty into it.
On the 15th, my husband fled to the spare room.
On the 16th, I swallowed a double dose of cod liver oil and occupied the loo for two days.
On the 19th, I woke crying. I shuffled to the living room, curled under the lamp, pulled *Tetris* from my vast dressing-gown pocket, and played—sniffling faintly.
An hour later, Dad found me. He studied me, tugged his beard, and slipped out silently.
Another hour, and an ambulance arrived. I clamped onto my husband and howled. He turned pale and missed his chair.
My son had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, prodded me, peered into every orifice, and declared he’d be born by midnight. It was seven in the evening.
In the lift to the delivery suite, I sobbed. An elderly nurse solemnly vowed not to sleep until midnight, promising to escort us to the ward herself. I calmed.
They left me on a hard cot. Boredom set in. My son stayed silent, giving no hint of arrival. The clock ticked to eight.
Doctors came. Studied my notes. Poked my belly.
*Contractions?*
*Weak.*
*Waters broken?*
*Not yet.*
*Induce?*
*Wait. Let her.*
*Cervix?*
*Five centimetres.*
*Then why isn’t she pushing?!*
All eyes turned to me. I hiccuped, ashamed. Yes, I was here to give birth. But how was I supposed to know why I wasn’t? Don’t look at me like that!
Another hiccup—then warmth spread beneath me.
*I’m pushing!* I shrieked.
They patted my belly, praised me, and left.
A midwife changed the sheet and sat beside me. *Scared?* She smiled. Very funny. Her waters hadn’t broken.
*Terrified.*
Honest. Then the shakes took me—violent, bone-deep.
*You’ll be running down the corridor tomorrow like a whippet,* she teased.
I opened my mouth to retort—then pain seized me. A wave, spine to knees, ebbed slowly. My son was determined to arrive before midnight.
Three hours later: drenched in sweat, biting my hands, vision clouded red. Cold fingers brushed hair from my face. With each contraction, I arched like a bow.
They rolled me, jabbed my thigh. Relief.
At my feet, three student midwives chatted idly.
*She’ll tear.*
*Nah.*
*Bet?*
*Won’t.*
*Head’s crowning…*
*Call Mrs. Townsend…*
Crowning? Where?! My hands flew downward—intercepted.
*What’re you doing? You’ll infect him!*
I gasped. *What colour’s his hair?*
*Dark. Hard to see.*
*Eyes? Can you see them?*
A stifled giggle. *Oh yes.*
The doctor arrived. Checked the head. The clock. Then held out a hand.
*Up. Carefully—don’t sit on his head. Sideways… Good. Now walk… Steady… Onto the bed… Legs here. Grab these bars. Chin to chest. PUSH! Harder! Almost!*
Sweat stung. Hair in my mouth. Hairclip lost. Spine cracking with effort.
*Stop! Don’t push! Head’s out—let his body come. Breathe. Deep. No pushing or you’ll tear.*
As if I could stop. But I tried. Wheezing like a steam engine.
A wet slap. Like raw liver hitting the floor.
Then—emptiness. Air in my lungs. Something warm, slick, alive placed on my belly. Squirming.
I reached. Covered the tiny, frog-like body with my palms.
MY SON.
His heartbeat fluttered against mine.
Hands gently pulled mine away. *One more push.*
I obeyed.
A cry. I turned. The doctor’s crinkled eyes above the mask.
*Well, Mummy? Who do we have here?*
I stared. My cracked lips split in a grin.
*…My boy.*
Laughter filled the room.
They laid him on me. He wriggled toward my chest, wailing softly.
I held him, afraid to crush him. Tears dripped onto his downy head. I kissed him, sobbing.
*My son… My sweet boy… My darling, my joy… Mine. Only mine.*
The most beautiful. The most loved. My Alfie!
The name leapt out. We’d planned for Oliver—but look at him! No Oliver. This was Alfie.
I’d waited for you, son. Your cot’s ready. Your yellow potty. Your pram, your toys. Your dad, grandma, grandad. Your warm blanket, your night-light. You’ll love it, my boy.
The clock struck twelve.
On the gurney, they handed me a phone. I pressed the cold plastic to my ear, licked my lips, whispered:
*Dad… We’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s perfect. His name’s Alfie. We were wrong—it’s not Oliver. It’s Alfie. Ours.*
And in that moment, I learned this: love isn’t measured in weeks or weight or waiting. It arrives—absolute, unasked for—the second you hold them, and nothing, not pain nor fear nor plans gone awry, ever dims it.
