Page 37 of How We Loved

“Ben. Don’t be ridiculous. You know I need you to do it for me.”

He smirked his very best cocky smile and then got to making the gravy. I took part in one of my very favourite culinary pastimes: watching Ben’s arse while he cooks, but soon even that couldn’t satisfy me, and I went off in search of Hope. I’m beginning to realize I might have control issues when it comes to my baby. Is that weird? I’ve never been controlling about anything in my life. Very much the opposite as a fact. But with her, I just need to know everything is the way I want it to be.

Meredith had her. Upstairs. I went up there to make sure she was changing the nappy properly. You’ve got to put the cream on just so, otherwise, it doesn’t work properly, but Meredith told me I had to wait outside the door.

“Uh, no!” I called back. “She’s actually my baby.”

“Lillllll, you’ve got to chill and share…”

What the actual fuck? “Get your own!”

“Oi!” shouted Tristan from downstairs.

“Just give me two minutes.” Meredith pleaded through the door.

I started counting. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”

Finally, she opened the door, with Hope in her arms. Hope had been transformed. My cute little party dress with matching tights - Note to self: tights are an utter bugger to get on a baby - was gone. She was a reindeer. Meredith had dressed my precious baby as a reindeer.

“No? Not feeling it?” She said as she caught sight of my expression. “I’ve got a Christmas pudding onesie too.”

Now I have a reindeer of a daughter, mum’s pissed and forgotten to take the turkey out of the oven, and Dad and Bev are murdering Bing Crosby. Oh, and I’ve had my quota of alcohol safe for the baby, so have to remain sober throughout this car crash of an event. Merry bloody Christmas.

Later

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t all bad. Ben suggested I pump some more feeds, then I could have some wine with dinner. That does now mean that I have to effectively pump into the night and dump the milk down the sink.

Is it really bad I’m thinking of stopping breastfeeding? It’s not about having a drink; Jesus, I’m not that crap. It’s more, breastfeeding takes over your whole life. Three times today I’ve had to take Hope upstairs by myself. And while that’s quite nice because I’m the only one who can do it, so she’s all mine, at the same time, it would have been nice to have more than one bite of mum’s overdone turkey before I had to leave the table to sit upstairs for what turned out to be a forty-minute feed.

Actually, it might have been shorter, but Hope fell asleep and then so did I. Ben came up to find us. Hope was across my stomach, and I still had a tit picking out. I think I’d feel like a failure if I gave up so soon. I keep thinking of the look on the health visitor’s face when I tell them I’m a "breast is best" quitter. Parenting is hard. Why does no one tell you this? Maybe they do. Maybe I just wasn’t listening.

Anyway, by the time I got back downstairs, leaving Hope sleeping on the double bed and clutching the baby monitor that I had to check was working every thirty seconds, everyone else at the table was a bit tiddly.

“So any wedding date yet?” Dad asked. “I can still make a call to the Dean at Southwark Cathedral. It’s a wonderful setting.”

My fork, which I’d only just picked up, clattered to the table, pinging off of my plate.

“Dad!”

“I’m just saying. It’s been a few months; you’ve had the baby. It’s time for the next step.”

Ben squeezed my leg under the table, but it was as awkward as hell. Everyone knows the delay in nuptials is coming from me, and while I may have softened to the idea since Hope’s arrival, and I do know I want me and her to have the same surname. I’m still not one hundred percent.

“Dad, we haven’t talked about it. I’ve still got to finish uni; Ben has got to work on his solo stuff. And caring for a baby is pretty demanding too.”

“Well, you’ve got to do it. You know, Mummy would help.”

Ugh. Puke. I hate it when they call one another mummy and daddy. Tristan, a stupid smug married person smirked from the other side of the table.

“I don’t want to…” A deadly silence settled around the table. All knives and forks suspended. “I don’t know if I want a big thing.” I shrugged. This was awkward. The only saving grace was that everyone was tiddled and might not remember.

Ben remembered though. As we got into bed just now, he’s fast asleep and doing his red wine snore already; he squeezed my fingers and said, “It doesn’t have to be a big thing, Lilah. It can just be us three.”

Wouldn’t that be lovely.

Just us three.

“Of course,” he added, eyes already closed. “Hello Magazine has offered us a six-figure sum to have sole rights to the event.”