smile, wondering just how long was appropriate to stand cocooned between a wall and your mother. As a small cry escaped the baby’s mouth, I sensed it was time to hand her back.
But when the crying continued an hour later, as I attempted to scan the job papers, things became a little clearer for me. And when the crying woke me up at around two a.m. and then again at six, I knew what had to happen around here. So I waited another three hours before lifting my tired body out of the house and went straight into the Job Center, where I located a full-time job, applied and was told I could start right away. As unsuitable as the job was (stacking shelves in a huge superstore during “twilight” hours but paying much more than the daytime wage), it eventually allowed me to gather a deposit and two months’ rent on a two-bedroom apartment with Carla—who’d been itching to move ever since her parents had divorced and her father had moved to Barcelona.
D uring my last night at home, I peered into the Sprog’s cot, watching her chest move up and down, her tiny eyes closed to the world around her. By now she was cute(ish), large curls dominating the Winnie pillowcase found in Mothercare as Carla and I shopped for our new home. And not for the first time, I tried so hard to feel “it” this unconditional love Dad had written about in The Manual. This feeling you were supposed to feel toward small babies related to you by way of genetic accident. As always, nothing came. No swishes of love. She was just a kid. Just like I’d been to Granny Bates, Auntie Philomena and Auntie Ina. Being tied to someone by blood didn’t guarantee anything. I gently placed a finger on the Sprog’s forehead. “Goodnight,” I whispered gently, knowing she could be anyone’s kid lying in that cot.
Anyone’s.
C arla and I settled into our two-bedroom apartment overlooking a mangy, often noisy old park, home to twice-weekly unauthorized bonfires and a rainbow of graffiti. Still, it was in Greenwich, almost kissing the border of Blackheath. Far enough away from Mom (a short bus ride away) but still close enough to roots planted by my dad. And I needed that familiarity.
Along with the less than flash scenery, the dreary inside walls of our apartment sometimes reeked of damp, but none of this mattered. Carla and I were two young women armed with the freedom to do what we liked, when we liked. New Jersey—or at least the experience—was still reverberating through my body like aftershocks of an earthquake and I couldn’t wait to replicate my experiences. All change. Time to start handling my own life. Which unfortunately meant managing bills, home cooking and lugging bags of laundry two streets away to the launderette.
A t first I loved living with Carla. But after a while, say, like a WEEK, some of her attributes began to grate on me. For instance, her general laziness in regards to hygiene, an inability to pick up after herself and her constant bitching about my choice of television program. The most exasperating had to be the sound of her and Fred (new, rocker boyfriend) having sex in the room next door while I attempted something resembling sleep after a long overnight shift at the superstore. A pattern I’d hoped had been left at Mom’s, thanks to a screaming baby. Still, every now and then I pinched myself, just to remind me that I was away from the chaos and unwanted family portrait scenes of my previous life, which had to be a good thing.
Of course, I’d visit Mom’s for some Sunday dinner (often armed with a bag of washing). Aghast at how the once spotless house I grew up in had become increasingly untidy, with toys and diapers strewn about and all to the soundtrack of a crying baby. I’d load the washing machine as Mom or the Bingo Caller cradled the Sprog while whistling the theme tune to Coronation Street (which, apparently, she loved). Then I’d disappear next door to Carla’s mom, returning just in time for the
But when the crying continued an hour later, as I attempted to scan the job papers, things became a little clearer for me. And when the crying woke me up at around two a.m. and then again at six, I knew what had to happen around here. So I waited another three hours before lifting my tired body out of the house and went straight into the Job Center, where I located a full-time job, applied and was told I could start right away. As unsuitable as the job was (stacking shelves in a huge superstore during “twilight” hours but paying much more than the daytime wage), it eventually allowed me to gather a deposit and two months’ rent on a two-bedroom apartment with Carla—who’d been itching to move ever since her parents had divorced and her father had moved to Barcelona.
D uring my last night at home, I peered into the Sprog’s cot, watching her chest move up and down, her tiny eyes closed to the world around her. By now she was cute(ish), large curls dominating the Winnie pillowcase found in Mothercare as Carla and I shopped for our new home. And not for the first time, I tried so hard to feel “it” this unconditional love Dad had written about in The Manual. This feeling you were supposed to feel toward small babies related to you by way of genetic accident. As always, nothing came. No swishes of love. She was just a kid. Just like I’d been to Granny Bates, Auntie Philomena and Auntie Ina. Being tied to someone by blood didn’t guarantee anything. I gently placed a finger on the Sprog’s forehead. “Goodnight,” I whispered gently, knowing she could be anyone’s kid lying in that cot.
Anyone’s.
C arla and I settled into our two-bedroom apartment overlooking a mangy, often noisy old park, home to twice-weekly unauthorized bonfires and a rainbow of graffiti. Still, it was in Greenwich, almost kissing the border of Blackheath. Far enough away from Mom (a short bus ride away) but still close enough to roots planted by my dad. And I needed that familiarity.
Along with the less than flash scenery, the dreary inside walls of our apartment sometimes reeked of damp, but none of this mattered. Carla and I were two young women armed with the freedom to do what we liked, when we liked. New Jersey—or at least the experience—was still reverberating through my body like aftershocks of an earthquake and I couldn’t wait to replicate my experiences. All change. Time to start handling my own life. Which unfortunately meant managing bills, home cooking and lugging bags of laundry two streets away to the launderette.
A t first I loved living with Carla. But after a while, say, like a WEEK, some of her attributes began to grate on me. For instance, her general laziness in regards to hygiene, an inability to pick up after herself and her constant bitching about my choice of television program. The most exasperating had to be the sound of her and Fred (new, rocker boyfriend) having sex in the room next door while I attempted something resembling sleep after a long overnight shift at the superstore. A pattern I’d hoped had been left at Mom’s, thanks to a screaming baby. Still, every now and then I pinched myself, just to remind me that I was away from the chaos and unwanted family portrait scenes of my previous life, which had to be a good thing.
Of course, I’d visit Mom’s for some Sunday dinner (often armed with a bag of washing). Aghast at how the once spotless house I grew up in had become increasingly untidy, with toys and diapers strewn about and all to the soundtrack of a crying baby. I’d load the washing machine as Mom or the Bingo Caller cradled the Sprog while whistling the theme tune to Coronation Street (which, apparently, she loved). Then I’d disappear next door to Carla’s mom, returning just in time for the
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