**Diary Entry**
One damp autumn evening, I realised a son had taken up residence in my belly. I knew at once it was a son—not, say, a tapeworm—and so began nurturing him with all due diligence. I fed him vitamins, stuffed him full of calcium, and bravely swallowed cod liver oil. He showed no gratitude. By five months, he’d swollen my stomach to the size of a beach ball, squirming and hiccupping incessantly.
I carried my belly with solemn pride, accepting congratulations and clementines—which I ate peel and all, with a prim little smile. Evenings, my son and I listened to Vivaldi, hiccupping tragically in time with *The Four Seasons*…
At six months, I caught myself licking a slimy pebble from the fish tank. I didn’t *want* to. I was obeying my son’s orders.
By seven months, I was devouring raw buckwheat by the kilo. He was mocking me.
Eight months in, I could only squeeze into my grandmother’s dressing gown and a checked jumpsuit that made me look like Mrs. Karlsson. My son left me no choice.
Nine months. I couldn’t see my feet. I gauged the time of day by the intensity of his hiccups. My diet: seaweed, raw buckwheat, clementine peels, charcoal tablets, dry clay meant for face masks, cigarette filters, and banana skins.
I stopped cutting my hair—old Mabel from downstairs croaked that trimming it would shorten my son’s life. I never raised my arms above my head, lest he tangled himself in the umbilical cord. I let no one drink from my cup. I religiously shoved papaverine suppositories up—well, *near* the right place. Close enough.
I scratched my belly raw, half-convinced it might burst.
I bought my son a pram, a cot, twenty-two packs of nappies, a bathtub, a bathtub stand, antiseptic, cotton wool, sterile wipes, ten bottles, a dozen teats, twenty muslins, three blankets, two mattresses, a playpen, a tiny bike, eight bonnets, stacks of babygros, five towels, twenty sleepsuits in varying sizes, countless vests, baby shampoo, nappy cream, a wind-pipe, 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 like a trophy. I washed and ironed every scrap of fabric, while my mother quietly rang a psychiatrist.
He was due between the 12th of July and the 3rd of August.
On the 12th, I packed two bags. One held slippers, shower gel, shampoo, a toothbrush, notepaper, a pen, tissues, a hairbrush, socks, a hairband, and phone tokens. The other: two muslins, a nappy for a 3kg baby, a vest, a blue bonnet, a blue bunny-eared sleepsuit, a lace-trimmed blanket, and an elephant dummy.
On the 13th, I moved the bags bedside.
On the 14th, I bought a stroller and transferred the potty into it.
On the 15th, my husband fled to the spare room.
On the 16th, I overdosed on cod liver oil and colonised the loo for two days.
On the 19th, I woke weeping. I shuffled to the parlour, sat beneath the lampshade, pulled a *Tetris* cartridge from my cavernous dressing gown pocket, and played—sniffling all the while.
An hour later, my father found me. He studied me, tugged his beard, and slipped away.
An hour after that, an ambulance arrived.
I clawed at my husband and howled. He turned blue and missed the chair entirely.
My son had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, prodded me, inspected every possible orifice, and declared he’d arrive by midnight. The clock read seven.
In the lift to the maternity ward, I wailed. The elderly orderly escorting me solemnly vowed to stay awake and personally deliver us to the ward. I calmed.
They left me on a hard gurney, bored. My son was silent, betraying no urgency.
Eight o’clock. The doctors arrived, reviewed my notes, poked my belly.
“Contractions?”
“Faint.”
“Waters broken?”
“Not yet.”
“Cervix?”
“Five centimetres.”
“Why isn’t she pushing?!”
They all stared. I hiccupped, ashamed. I was *here* to give birth, but how was *I* to know why it wasn’t happening? Another hiccup—then warmth gushed beneath me.
“I’m giving birth!” I shrieked.
They poked my belly, praised me, and left.
A midwife changed the sheets and sat beside me.
“Scared?”
She was grinning. Hilarious, coming from someone not leaking fluids.
“Terrified.”
Honest. Then a shuddering pain racked my spine, hit my knees, and faded. My son was adamant: he’d be born by midnight.
Three hours later, I lay drenched in sweat, vision blurred red, gnawing my own hands. Cold fingers brushed hair from my face. With each contraction, I arched like a bow. Someone rolled me sideways, jabbed my hip—relief.
At my feet, three student nurses murmured:
“Will she tear?”
“Nah.”
“Bet?”
“Pass.”
“Head’s crowning…”
“Fetch Dr. Eleanor…”
*Head? Where?* My hands shot toward my belly—intercepted mid-air.
“Stop! You’ll introduce germs!”
A second wind hit. I gasped, “What colour’s his hair?”
“Dark. Hard to see.”
“Eyes? Can you see them?”
Giggles. “Oh yeah. Clear as day.”
The doctor arrived, checked, glanced at the clock, then offered a hand.
“Up. Carefully—don’t squash his head. Sideways… Good. Now walk… Slowly… Onto the bed… Feet here. Grab these bars. Chin to chest. PUSH!”
Darkness. Sweat stung my eyes. Hair choked my mouth. I’d lost my clip. My spine creaked with effort.
“Harder! STOP! Don’t push! Head’s out—let the body come naturally. Breathe. *Don’t push* or you’ll tear.”
As if I had a choice. I panted like a steam engine.
*Squelch.*
Like raw liver hitting the floor. Emptiness. Breath returned. Something warm, wet, *alive* squirmed onto my belly.
*My son.*
I reached—hands were gently pulled back.
“One more push, love.”
A minute later, a wail. The doctor’s crinkled eyes smiled above his mask.
“Meet your baby, Mum.”
I gaped. My chapped lips split into a grin.
“My boy…”
Laughter rippled. They laid him on me. He writhed toward my breast, mewling. I clutched him, terrified of crushing him. Tears dripped onto his scalp.
“My son… My darling, my joy… Mine. Only mine.”
The most beautiful boy. My *Alfie.*
The name sprang unbidden. We’d planned on *Oliver*—but look at him! He’s no Oliver. He’s *Alfie.*
I waited for you, son. Your home’s ready—a cot, a yellow potty, toys, your dad, grandparents, a warm blanket, a night-light shaped like a bun. You’ll love it.
The clock struck midnight.
On the gurney, a nurse handed me the phone. I whispered into the sterile receiver:
“Dad… We’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s perfect. His name’s Alfie. We were wrong—he’s not Oliver. He’s *ours.*”
**Lesson:** Life’s grandest plans are scribbled in pencil—children write the final draft in ink.
