It was on a damp, chilly autumn evening that I first realized a son had taken up residence inside me. That it was a son, and not, say, a tapeworm, I knew at once. And so, with great solemnity, I began to nurture him.
I fed him vitamins, stuffed myself with calcium, and bravely swallowed cod liver oil. My son did not appreciate my efforts. After five months, he had swollen my belly to the size of a beach ball. Worse still, he refused to sit still—always squirming, always hiccupping. With pride, I carried this belly of mine, accepting congratulations and tangerines, which I ate peel and all, with a coy little smile.
In the evenings, my son and I listened to Vivaldi, hiccupping tragically in time with *The Four Seasons*… By the sixth month, I caught myself licking a pebble covered in algae, freshly plucked from the aquarium. I hadn’t wanted to. I was merely obeying my son’s demands.
By the seventh month, I was devouring raw buckwheat by the pound. My son mocked me.
By the eighth, I could only fit into my grandmother’s old dressing gown and a checked onesie that made me resemble Mrs. Karlsson. My son had grown, leaving me no choice.
By the ninth, I could no longer see my own feet. I told the time by the intensity of my son’s hiccups. My diet consisted of algae, raw buckwheat, tangerines with their peel, activated charcoal, dry clay meant for face masks, cigarette filters, and banana skins.
I stopped cutting my hair after Granny Mabel from the ground floor croaked that every snip shortened my son’s life. I never raised my arms above my head lest he strangle himself in the umbilical cord. I let no one drink from my cup. I dutifully shoved in suppositories of papaverine to ensure he wouldn’t arrive too soon—though, admittedly, not always in the correct orifice. A few centimeters off—what did it matter?
I scratched my belly until it bled, half terrified it might burst at any moment.
I bought my son a pram, a cot, twenty-two packs of nappies, a bathtub, a stand for the bathtub, iodine, cotton wool, sterile wipes, ten bottles, a dozen teething rings, swaddling cloths by the score, three blankets, two mattresses, a playpen, a bicycle, eight bonnets, piles of rompers, five towels, twenty pairs of bootees, countless vests, baby shampoo, nappy rash cream, a gas relief tube, a snot sucker, an enema bulb, two hot water bottles, a toothbrush, a musical mobile, two sacks of rattles, and a yellow potty.
I pushed the potty around the flat in the pram, washed and ironed every last nappy and romper, while my mother secretly rang a psychiatrist.
My son was due between the twelfth of July and the third of August. On the twelfth, I packed two bags. The first held slippers, shower gel, shampoo, a toothbrush, notepaper, a pen, tissues, a comb, socks, a hairband, and phone tokens. The second contained two swaddling cloths, a nappy for a three-kilo baby, a vest, a blue bonnet, a blue “envelope” with bunny ears, a lace-trimmed corner, and a dummy shaped like an elephant.
On the thirteenth, I moved the bags to my bedroom, placing them beside the bed.
On the fourteenth, I bought a stroller and transferred the yellow potty into it.
On the fifteenth, my husband fled to another room.
On the sixteenth, I swallowed an alarming dose of cod liver oil and monopolized the loo for two days.
On the nineteenth, I woke with an urge to cry. I retreated to the drawing room, sat beneath the floor lamp, pulled a Game Boy from the pocket of my vast dressing gown, and began losing. Softly, I wept.
An hour later, my father found me. He looked at me, tugged his beard, and walked out without a word.
Another hour passed before the ambulance arrived. I clutched my husband and howled. He turned pale, missing the chair. My son had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, prodded me, examined every possible opening, and declared he’d be born by midnight. It was seven in the evening.
In the lift to the maternity ward, I burst into tears. The elderly orderly escorting me solemnly vowed not to sleep until midnight and promised to personally deliver my son and me to the ward. I calmed.
They left me on a hard gurney, bored. My son was silent, giving no hint he intended to emerge. The clock struck eight.
Doctors arrived, studied my notes, prodded my belly. “Contractions?” “Weak.” “Water broken?” “No.” “Induce?” “Wait. Let her do it.” “Cervix?” “Five centimeters.” “Then why isn’t she pushing?!” They all looked at me.
I hiccupped, ashamed. Yes, I was here to give birth—but I had no idea why I wasn’t! Stop looking at me like that! Another hiccup, then warmth spreading beneath me. I shrieked, “I’m pushing!”
They felt my belly, praised me, and left. A midwife changed the sheet, sat beside me. “Scared?” she asked, smiling. Funny woman. Water wasn’t pouring out of *her*.
I nodded. Then my body convulsed.
“Tomorrow you’ll be running down the corridor like a mad thing,” she said.
I opened my mouth to reply—pain shot down my spine, reached my knees, faded. My son had resolved to be born before midnight.
Three hours later, I lay drenched in sweat, seeing only my bitten hands through a haze of pain. Cold fingers brushed hair from my face. With each contraction, I arched like a bow. Someone turned me, injected me. Relief.
At my feet, three student nurses murmured: “She’ll tear.” “Nah.” “Bet?” “Won’t.” “Head’s crowning…”
I reached—hands seized mine. “Trying to give us an infection?”
I gasped, “What color’s his hair?” “Dark. Hard to see.” “His eyes?” Giggles. “Oh, yes.”
The doctor checked the clock. “Up. Carefully—don’t sit on his head. That’s it… Now climb onto the bed… Hold these rails… Chin to chest… Push!”
I pushed until my spine cracked. “Stop! Don’t push! Head’s out—body’ll come on its own. Breathe!”
But I couldn’t stop. Like a steam engine, I huffed.
A wet, slapping sound. Emptiness. Then warmth, wetness, life—placed on my belly. Crawling.
I opened my eyes, reached—small, slippery, alive—MY SON. His tiny heart drummed against me.
“One more push,” they said. I obeyed.
A cry. The doctor’s crinkled eyes above a mask. “Look, Mama—who do we have here?”
I stared, smiling till my lips split. “My boy…” Laughter filled the room.
They laid him on me. He wriggled toward my breast, whimpering. I held him, terrified I might crush him. Tears dripped onto his head, my lips pressed to his scalp.
“My son… My Andrew…” The name came unbidden. We’d planned for Nicholas—but he wasn’t a Nicholas. He was Andrew, through and through.
I whispered to him of his home—his cot, his potty, his pram, his waiting family.
The clock struck midnight.
On a gurney, I was wheeled out, handed a phone. “Daddy,” I whispered, “we’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s small, beautiful—and his name is Andrew. We were wrong, Daddy. This isn’t Nicholas. It’s Andrew. Our son.”
