One chilly autumn evening, I realized there was a son growing inside me. Somehow, I just knew it was a son—not, say, a tapeworm—and from that moment, I took my mission seriously. I fed him vitamins, stuffed myself with calcium, and bravely choked down cod liver oil.
But my son didn’t seem to appreciate my efforts. Five months in, he’d swollen my belly to the size of a beach ball, and he wouldn’t stop squirming and hiccuping. I carried him around with pride, accepting congratulations and tangerines—which I ate whole, skin and all, with a silly little smile.
In the evenings, we listened to Vivaldi, hiccuping tragically in time with *The Four Seasons.*
By six months, I caught myself licking a pebble covered in algae—straight from the fish tank. I didn’t *want* to. My son was calling the shots.
At seven months, I was eating raw buckwheat by the pound. He was mocking me.
At eight months, the only things that fit were my nan’s old dressing gown and a checked dungaree set that made me look like Mrs. Karlsson. He’d grown so much, I had no choice.
By nine months, I couldn’t see my own feet, told time by the rhythm of his hiccups, and was eating algae, raw buckwheat, tangerines (skin on), charcoal tablets, dry clay meant for face masks, cigarette filters, and banana peels.
I didn’t cut my hair because Doris from the ground floor swore trimming it would shorten his life.
I never raised my arms above my head, lest he get tangled in the cord.
No one was allowed to sip from my cup.
I dutifully stuffed myself with papaverine suppositories—not always in the right place, mind you—so he wouldn’t come too soon.
I scratched my belly raw, half-convinced it might burst.
I bought him a pram, a cot, twenty-two packs of nappies, a baby bath, a bath stand, antiseptic, cotton wool, sterile wipes, ten bottles, a dozen dummies, twenty muslins, three blankets, two mattresses, a playpen, a tricycle, eight bonnets, piles of baby grows, five towels, twenty rompers in assorted sizes, countless vests, baby shampoo, nappy cream, a windpipe, a little 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 for practice, washed and ironed all the muslins and baby grows—both sides—while my mum quietly 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 had slippers, shower gel, shampoo, a toothbrush, paper, a pen, tissues, a comb, socks, a hair tie, and phone credit. The second held two muslins, a nappy for 3kg babies, a vest, a blue bonnet, a blue bunny-eared sleepsuit, a lace-trimmed blanket, and an elephant dummy.
On the 13th, I moved both bags to my bedside.
On the 14th, I bought a pushchair and transferred the yellow potty into it.
On the 15th, my husband fled to the spare room.
On the 16th, I downed an obscene amount of cod liver oil and camped out in the loo for two days.
On the 19th, I woke up wanting to cry. I shuffled to the living room, sat under the lamp, pulled a handheld *Tetris* from the pocket of my massive dressing gown, and lost repeatedly while sniffling.
An hour later, my dad found me. He stared, tugged his beard, and slipped out silently.
An hour after that, an ambulance arrived. I latched onto my husband and wailed. He turned pale and missed the chair entirely.
My son had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, poked me, examined me through practically every opening, and declared he’d be here by midnight.
It was seven in the evening.
In the maternity lift, I burst into tears. The elderly orderly escorting me solemnly promised not to sleep until we were settled in the ward.
They left me on a hard bed, bored and alone. My son had gone quiet, giving no hint he was ready.
Doctors came in, scanned my notes, prodded my belly, and debated:
“Contractions?”
“Weak.”
“Waters broken?”
“Not yet.”
“Induce?”
“Wait. Let her go naturally.”
“Cervix?”
“Five centimetres.”
“So why isn’t she pushing?!”
They all turned to me. I hiccuped, mortified. Yes, I was here to give birth—but how was I supposed to know why it wasn’t happening?
Another hiccup—and then warmth flooded beneath me.
“I’M PUSHING!” I shrieked.
They checked, praised me, and left.
A midwife changed the sheets and sat beside me. “Scared?” she asked, grinning.
“Terrified,” I admitted—just as a wave of pain shot down my spine, buckling my knees.
My son was determined to meet the deadline.
Three hours later, drenched in sweat, I saw nothing but my bitten hands through a haze of pain. Cold fingers pushed sticky hair from my face as I arched with every contraction. Someone rolled me sideways for an injection. Relief.
At my feet, three student nurses murmured:
“Will she tear?”
“Nah.”
“Bet she does.”
“Not taking that.”
“Head’s crowning…”
“Should fetch Dr. Carter…”
*Crowning?! Where?!*
My hands flew towards my belly—only to be snatched back. “What’re you doing? You’ll cause an infection!”
Gasping, I demanded: “What colour’s his hair?”
“Dark. Hard to see.”
“Eyes? Can you see his eyes?”
A stifled giggle. “Oh yeah. Big time.”
The doctor strode in, checked the head, checked the clock, then offered a hand. “Up you get. Carefully—don’t squish him. Sideways—good. Now, onto the bed. Feet here. Grab the handles, chin to chest, and *push!*”
Blinded by sweat, hair in my mouth, I pushed until my spine creaked.
“Almost! STOP—don’t push! Head’s out. Breathe deep—no pushing or you’ll tear.”
As if I had a choice. I panted like a steam train.
Then—*splutch.* Like raw liver hitting the floor.
Emptiness. Air.
Something warm, wet, and wriggling was placed on my belly. *Alive.* Crawling.
I reached down—and there he was.
*My son.*
His tiny heartbeat pulsed against my skin.
Hands gently pulled me back. “One more push, love.”
A minute later—a cry.
The doctor’s crinkled eyes smiled above his mask. “Well, Mum? Who do we have here?”
I stared, lips splitting into a grin.
“…My boy.”
Laughter filled the room.
They laid him on my chest. He squirmed towards me, whimpering.
I held him, terrified I’d crush him, tears dripping onto his head.
“My son… my sweet boy… my little love…”
The name came unbidden: *Andrew.* We’d planned on *Nathan*—but looking at him, how could he be anything but Andy?
I whispered into the phone to Dad: “We’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s perfect. And his name’s Andrew. We were wrong—he’s *not* Nathan. He’s ours.”
The clock struck midnight.
