Mum Face: The Memoir of a Woman who Gained a Baby and Lost Her Sh*t. Grace Timothy

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      When you’re pregnant and feel ill-equipped, you say things like ‘What if I drop it or slip over and squash it?’ to your partner or your parents and they’ll hush you with platitudes, as if all those outcomes are impossible. Nobody’s going to suggest an abortion, no matter how scared you are. They might secretly be thinking, wow, she should NOT be having a baby, but they’ll never say it. Even my mum, who had delighted in the goriest details of my birth for the past 28 years, suddenly shut up shop on that particular theme, and just kept telling me that becoming a mother was the best thing she’d ever done.

      That’s a pretty big statement, I thought. I appreciated the sentiment, of course – I was that baby that outdid every other experience she’d had to date – but … really? I mean, it was better than falling in love with my dad? Better than riding a motorbike in full leathers? She’d lived through some pretty incredible moments – first female prime minister, first woman in space, first computer, the advent of the NutriBullet … She’d nailed a dozen different careers, had accomplished so much. She’d seen friends beat cancer, she’d watched the Berlin Wall tumble down, she’d met Katharine Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman. She’d been a punk, a speed freak, an artist, an island-hopper – surely there must have been some serious highs in amongst all that hedonism? Before you had to ditch the Marlboro Reds and black coffee and rely on me – a jelly-mouthed baby with colic – for your kicks? Having a baby was the best? I hadn’t done nearly enough of all the other stuff yet, could it really eclipse all the other stuff I’d planned to do?

      I realised I couldn’t have a straight chat with her about this – she was too deeply invested already, and she was One of Them – a mum. She couldn’t give objective or impartial advice on this. It felt like she was just full of massive Hallmark lies. And more lies: I was seriously ill but nobody would openly discuss the prognosis. I felt sure Rich and my mum were shaking their heads in the next room, wondering how they would raise this child together when I had died in labour.

      Now, usually when I’d gone through something a bit shocking – an especially bad commute where there had been no free seats and I’d had to witness someone vomit into their briefcase, for example – I’d unwind with a little drink. I liked to sit on the windowsill in our bathroom, with a big glass of wine and very occasionally, a cigarette. I’d flop from there directly down into the bath and give myself a massive head rush from the combination of smoke and hot water (I’m actually a bit of a pussy when it comes to both of those two indulgences – I once passed out after half a Benson & Hedges at school). Clearly, cigarettes are a big no-no during pregnancy, but booze? Rich was adamant it was stupid to abstain altogether.

      ‘Have a glass,’ he said. ‘It’ll relax you and I’ve been reading up – it won’t hurt the baby.’

      But the real kicker was that my body disagreed. The minute a bottle was opened I was overcome with the urge to throw up. The smell was unbearable. As was the smell of tea and coffee. And food.

      So it seemed my body was actually siding with the baby now, too. It was coming round to the idea of growing a healthy child. Which was hard when all my comforts – reflexology, aromatherapy, sex – were being stripped from me. I got very dramatic when my mum suggested a hot bath might not be a great idea.

      ‘I read that if it’s too hot it could harm the baby. Plus the pH of your vagina is sensitive so bubble bath might irritate it, which is no good because you shouldn’t really take antibiotics.’

      ‘GOD, MUM! Is there anything I can do? Can I take a shit in peace or WILL IT HURT THE BLOODY BABY?!’

      ‘Just don’t push too hard, darling!’ she called after me.

      I tried to slam the bathroom door and cursed its slow-close safety fixtures. Great for not smashing a kid’s fingers if you have one, not so much if it’s you who wants to throw a tantrum.

      Neither my mum nor Rich would acknowledge the logistical flaws in this new life plan, either. Whenever I mentioned worries about how I’d continue to work and therefore pay the mortgage, my mum would say something like, ‘It’ll be fine,’ or ‘Well, there’s never a good time!’ If there’s never a good time, why the fuck do people ever have babies at all? I wondered. I’m pretty sure if I’d been suggesting buying a second house, they’d have some objections. But that was safely off the table because no mortgage advisor would be able to sanction such a thing. A similarly expensive investment by way of a baby? Shockingly, nobody’s doing risk assessment on that.

      So I called my uncle. He is a very wise man who has self-helped himself into a pretty solid mental state, and is always called upon by every generation to give advice on money, work, relationships and dry wall. It’s weird because he’s never had kids, has never married and he works for himself, but I think it’s the fact he always seems happy and his irrepressible can-do attitude that makes him the ultimate agony uncle. You want to travel? Do it. You want to sell up and live on a barge? Why not? And so it was decided he would help this reluctant mother-to-be reconcile her Beyoncé-styled feminist stance on womanhood with impending motherhood.

      ‘I don’t see how this is going to change everything if you don’t want it to,’ said THE MAN WITH NO KIDS AND NO UTERUS. ‘I mean, you decide how you want to play it, it’s your kid. You and Rich are smart enough to make it work. Look how many women carry on working and socialising?’ He basically told me to Lean In. It was what I needed to hear.

      ‘I don’t even know if you have to move out of the flat – kids are small for ages, right? For now, just call your boss, sooner rather than later, and see what she says. If she’s adamant you can’t do the job, you’ll know and you can make a different plan. But it’s really her call, so find out and you’ll have all the facts.’

      He was right, and in my head this handed at least an aspect of the decision over my future to someone else, which I liked the idea of. Yes, my boss could decide if the idea of parenthood was viable for us.

      Rich finally made his way into an empty room and we lay together holding hands. He told me if this wasn’t the right time for us to have a baby we could discuss … the alternatives. Just like that, the unmentionable had almost been mentioned. There was something about laying it out like that, making it real, giving me the very real chance to say, I don’t want this, which set me free. It was all it took to make me breathe again. I thought about it. If I didn’t have a baby it would mean an easier ride at work, that we could plough on unimpeded in many ways. But for some reason, even though this pregnancy had seemed like the worst shock, it was softening around me. It seemed less of a doomed situation. I felt scared, and when had that ever stopped me from doing anything? I mean, apart from waxing my bikini line. I wasn’t ready to throw a baby shower and buy a cot, but I was getting closer to accepting pregnancy, which was easy since I couldn’t see or feel it yet. I asked Rich what he wanted, and realised he just looked truly knackered. He shrugged and said he felt it wasn’t the best time, and he was worried about my career.

      ‘You’ve worked so hard to get here to this point, and I know it’s hard to risk all that.’

      ‘So if I wasn’t worried, if I could carry on working, would you want this baby?’

      ‘I think there are so many questions though – how would we make it work? But ultimately, I guess we just would.’

      He’s very good, isn’t he? Didn’t overtly lay the entire decision at my feet but didn’t commit to his own opinions either. He was just supportive and patient.

      ‘What about partying with your friends and your career, and what about the flat?’

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