**Diary Entry: The Arrival of My Son**
One dreary autumn evening, I realised a son had taken residence in my belly. That it was a son—and not, say, a tapeworm—I knew straight away. And so, I devoted myself to nurturing him. I fed him vitamins, stuffed myself with calcium, and bravely choked down cod liver oil.
He showed no gratitude. By five months, he’d inflated my belly to the size of a beach ball and wouldn’t stop squirming or hiccuping. I carried my belly like a trophy, accepting congratulations and tangerines—which I ate peel and all, with a coy little smile.
Evenings, my son and I listened to Vivaldi, hiccuping tragically in time with *The Four Seasons*.
By six months, I caught myself licking a pebble covered in algae—plucked straight from the fish tank. I didn’t *want* to. I was following orders.
At seven months, I began eating raw buckwheat by the kilo. My son mocked me.
By eight months, the only things that fit were Granny’s dressing gown and a tartan onesie that made me look like Mrs. Karlsson. He’d grown too big, leaving me no choice.
Nine months in, I couldn’t see my own feet. I gauged the time of day by the intensity of his hiccups. I ate algae, raw buckwheat, tangerines with peel, activated charcoal, dry clay meant for face masks, chewed cigarette filters, and banana skins.
I didn’t cut my hair—because Old Marge downstairs cawed that trimming it would shorten his life.
I never raised my arms above my head, lest he tangle himself in the umbilical cord.
I let no one drink from my cup.
I diligently shoved in suppositories of papaverine so he wouldn’t come early—though, admittedly, not always *where* they were meant to go. A couple of centimetres off—hardly the end of the world.
I scratched my belly raw, genuinely afraid it might split open.
I bought him a pram, a crib, twenty-two packs of nappies, a bath, a bath stand, antiseptic, cotton wool, sterile wipes, ten bottles, a dozen teats, twenty cloth nappies, three blankets, two mattresses, a playpen, a tricycle, eight bonnets, piles of outfits, five towels, twenty babygros in assorted sizes, countless vests, baby shampoo, nappy cream, a windpipe, 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 the pram, washed and ironed—both sides—all twenty cloth nappies, fifteen outfits, and so on, while my mum 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 nappies, a nappy for a 3kg baby, a vest, a blue bonnet, a blue “coming-home” outfit with bunny ears, a lace-trimmed blanket, and a dummy shaped like an elephant.
On the 13th, I dragged the bags to my room and set them by the bed.
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 swallowed a heroic dose of cod liver oil and occupied the loo for two solid days.
By the 19th, I woke up wanting to cry. I shuffled to the living room, sat under the lamp, pulled *Tetris* from the pocket of my vast dressing gown, and lost game after game, sniffing pathetically.
An hour later, Dad found me. He studied me, tugged his beard thoughtfully, and left without a word.
Another hour passed—then an ambulance arrived.
I clutched my husband and howled. He turned pale and missed the chair.
My son had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, poked me, peered into practically every orifice, and announced 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 nurse escorting me solemnly swore she’d stay awake and personally deliver us to the ward. I calmed down.
They left me on a hard cot, bored. My son lay silent inside me, showing no sign of wanting out.
At eight, doctors arrived, scrutinised my chart, prodded my belly, and muttered:
“Contractions?”
“Barely.”
“Waters broken?”
“Not yet.”
“Induce?”
“Wait. Let her go naturally.”
“Cervix?”
“Five centimetres.”
“So why isn’t she pushing?!”
They all stared at me.
I hiccuped, mortified. Yes, I was here to give birth—but how was *I* supposed to know why it wasn’t happening? Stop looking at me like that!
Another hiccup—then warmth flooded beneath me.
“I’m pushing!!!” I shrieked.
They checked, praised me, and left.
A midwife swapped the sheets and sat beside me.
“Scared?” she asked, grinning. Hilarious, coming from someone *not* leaking fluid.
“Terrified.”
Honest answer. Then a tremor hit me like a fever.
“You’ll be racing down corridors by tomorrow,” she chuckled.
I opened my mouth—another contraction stole my breath. Pain bolted down my spine, radiated to my knees, then ebbed.
My son was adamant: he’d be born before midnight.
Three hours later, I lay drenched in sweat, vision blurred red, biting my own hands. Cold fingers brushed hair from my face. With each contraction, I arched like a bow.
Someone rolled me sideways, injected me—relief.
At my feet, three student nurses murmured:
“Gonna tear?”
“Nah.”
“Bet?”
“Pass.”
“Head’s crowning…”
“Fetch Dr. Ellen…”
Head?! Where?!
My hands flew downward—intercepted mid-air.
“What’re you doing? You’ll cause an infection!”
A second wind hit. Gasping, I demanded:
“What colour’s his hair?”
“Dark. Hard to see.”
“Eyes? Can you see his eyes?”
Giggles. “Oh yeah. Clear as day.”
The doctor arrived, checked, glanced at the clock, then held out a hand.
“Up you get. Carefully—don’t sit on his head. Sideways… that’s it… now walk… Easy, don’t fall… Onto the bed… Feet here… Grab these bars, chin to chest, and PUSH!”
I saw nothing—sweat stung my eyes, hair clogged my mouth. My spine cracked audibly.
“Stop pushing! Head’s out—let the body come naturally. Breathe deep or you’ll tear!”
As if I could control it. Still, I obeyed, panting like a steam engine.
*Squelch.*
A sound like raw liver hitting the floor.
Then—emptiness. Air rushed back into my lungs. Something warm, wet, slippery, and *alive* writhed on my belly.
My hands shot out—cupped tiny, frog-like limbs.
**MY SON.**
I felt his heartbeat against my skin.
Someone gently pulled my hands away. “One more push, love.”
I obeyed.
A minute later—a wail. I turned: the doctor’s crinkled eyes smiled above his mask.
“Meet your baby, Mum.”
I stared, lips splitting into a grin.
“My boy…”
Laughter rippled through the room.
They laid him on my chest. He wriggled toward my breast, whimpering.
I cradled him, terrified I’d crush him. Tears dripped onto his downy head.
“My son… my sweet boy… my little love… mine. Only mine.”
The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. My Alfie.
The name leapt out. We’d planned on Oliver—but look at him! He’s no Oliver. He’s Alfie.
I’d waited for you, son. Your cot’s ready, your potty’s yellow. Your pram’s waiting, your dad’s pacing. Granny and Grandad are here. You’ll love it, my boy.
The clock struck midnight.
Wheeled into the corridor, I clutched the hospital phone.
“Dad…” I whispered. “We’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s perfect. And his name’s Alfie.”
We were wrong, Dad. He’s not Oliver. He’s Alfie.
**Our son.**
*Lesson learned: No plan survives first contact with a newborn. AndAnd as I held him close, exhausted and utterly, irreversibly changed, I realised no adventure could ever compare to this one.
