One dreary autumn evening, I realised my stomach had a new tenant—a son.
Not, say, a tapeworm—no, this was definitely a son. And I promptly set about growing him with all the responsibility of a first-time landlord.
I fed him vitamins, pumped him full of calcium, and bravely choked down cod liver oil. My son, ungrateful as ever, inflated my belly to the size of a beach ball within five months. He squirmed. He hiccuped. I carried him around like a prize pumpkin, accepting congratulations and tangerines—which I ate, peel and all, with a prim little smile.
Evenings were spent listening to Vivaldi, tragically hiccuping along to *The Four Seasons* in perfect sync.
By month six, I caught myself licking a pebble covered in algae—fresh from the fish tank. I hadn’t *wanted* to. My son had issued a decree.
Month seven saw me devouring raw buckwheat by the kilo. My son was laughing at me.
By month eight, the only things that fit were my granny’s dressing gown and a checked dungaree set that made me look like Mrs. Karlsson. My son had taken over, and I had no say in the matter.
At nine months, I could no longer see my feet. Time was measured by the intensity of my son’s hiccups. My diet was a gourmet selection of algae, raw buckwheat, tangerine peels, activated charcoal, dry clay (intended for face masks), cigarette filters, and banana skins.
I didn’t cut my hair—because Doris from downstairs cawed that trimming it would shorten my son’s life. I didn’t raise my arms above my head, lest he strangle himself with the umbilical cord. I let no one drink from my cup. I diligently shoved suppositories *somewhere near the right place* to stop him arriving early.
I scratched my belly raw, genuinely worried it might burst.
I bought him a pram, a crib, twenty-two packs of nappies, a bathtub, a bathtub stand, antiseptic, cotton wool, sterile wipes, ten bottles, a dozen dummies, two dozen muslins, three blankets, two mattresses, a playpen, a tiny bike, eight bonnets, a wardrobe’s worth of outfits, five towels, twenty babygros in assorted sizes, more vests than I could count, 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 paraded the potty around the flat in the pram, washed and ironed every scrap of fabric twice, while my mother quietly called a psychiatrist.
My son 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, notepad, pen, tissues, a hairbrush, socks, a hair tie, and phone tokens.
The second had 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-shaped dummy.
On the 13th, I moved the bags to my bedside.
On the 14th, I bought a pushchair and relocated the yellow potty into it.
On the 15th, my husband fled to the spare room.
On the 16th, I downed an industrial dose of cod liver oil and annexed the loo for two days.
On the 19th, I woke up wanting to cry. I shuffled into the living room, sat under the lamp, pulled a Game Boy from the pocket of my vast dressing gown, and played *Tetris* while sniffling.
An hour later, my dad found me. He stared, tugged his beard, and silently left.
Another hour later, an ambulance arrived.
I grabbed my husband and howled. He turned pale and missed the chair entirely.
My son had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, poked me, investigated every orifice, and declared he’d be born by midnight.
It was 7 p.m.
In the lift, I burst into tears. The elderly orderly escorting me solemnly vowed to stay awake until midnight and personally deliver us to the ward.
I calmed down.
They laid me on a hard cot and left me to it. Boredom set in.
My son stayed silent, giving no hint he intended to cooperate.
The clock read 8 p.m.
Doctors arrived, reviewed my notes, prodded my belly, and debated:
*”Contractions?”
“Barely.”
“Waters broken?”
“Not yet.”
“Induce?”
“Wait. Let her do it herself.”
“Cervix?”
“Five centimetres.”
“So why isn’t she pushing?!”*
They all looked at me.
I hiccuped. Shame flooded me. *Yes, I’m here to give birth. No, I don’t know why I’m not doing it. Stop staring!*
Another hiccup. Then—a warm puddle beneath me.
I shrieked, *”I’M PUSHING!”*
They checked, patted my belly, and left.
A midwife swapped the sheets and sat beside me. *”Scared?”*
She was smiling. Hilarious. *Her* waters hadn’t broken.
*”Terrified.”*
Honest answer. Then the shaking started—full-body tremors.
*”You’ll be sprinting down the corridor tomorrow like a greyhound,”* she said.
I opened my mouth to retort—*whoosh*. A wave of pain shot down my spine, hit my knees, and faded.
My son was determined to meet the deadline.
Three hours later, I was drenched in sweat, biting my hands, blind with pain. Cold fingers brushed hair from my face. With every contraction, I arched like a bow.
Someone rolled me sideways. A needle pricked. Relief.
At my feet, three student nurses murmured:
*”She’ll tear.”
“Nah.”
“Bet?”
“Pass.”
“Head’s crowning…”
“Fetch Dr. Bennett…”*
*Head?! Where?!*
My hands shot downward—intercepted mid-air.
*”What d’you think you’re doing? You’ll give him an infection!”*
New strength surged. I gasped, *”What colour’s his hair?”*
*”Dark. Hard to see.”
“Eyes? Can you see his eyes?”*
Muffled giggles. *”Oh yeah. Clear as day.”*
The doctor arrived, checked the clock, and held out a hand.
*”Up you get. Carefully now—don’t sit on his head. Sideways… good. Now walk. Slowly. Onto the bed. Feet here. Grab those handles. Chin to chest. PUSH.”*
Blind with sweat, hair in my mouth, I pushed until my spine cracked.
*”Stop! Don’t push! Head’s out—let the body come naturally. Breathe. Deep breaths. No pushing or you’ll tear.”*
*Don’t push?!* As if I had control. I panted like a steam engine.
*Squelch.*
A wet, slippery weight landed on my belly. Wriggling. *Alive.*
*MY SON.*
Tiny heartbeat thudding against mine.
Hands gently pulled me back. *”One more push, love.”*
I obeyed.
A cry filled the room.
The doctor’s crinkled eyes smiled above his mask. *”Look, Mum. See who’s here?”*
I stared. A grin split my cracked lips.
*”My boy…”*
Laughter rippled through the room.
They laid him on my chest. He squirmed toward me, whimpering. I cradled him, terrified I’d break him. Tears dripped onto his downy head.
*”My son… my darling boy… my sweet little love… Mine. All mine.”*
The most beautiful thing. *My Andrew.*
The name leapt out. We’d planned *Nathan*—but look at him! He was no Nathan. This was *Andrew*.
I’d waited for you, son. Your room’s ready—a crib, a yellow potty, a pram, toys. Your dad, your nan, your grandad are waiting. A warm blanket. A nightlight shaped like a bun. You’ll love it.
The clock struck midnight.
On a trolley, they wheeled me out, handed me a phone.
I whispered into the sterile plastic: *”Dad… We’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s perfect. And his name’s Andrew.”*
*We were wrong, Dad. Not Nathan. Andrew. Our boy.*
