A memory flashes into my head of holding Eleanor as a baby when I was sixteen. I adored her straight away. She was nestled in my arms, so tiny, so sweet…and so very, very intimidating.
Tim stepped up from the word go, and we had her with us overnight on a regular basis. He’d get up every time she cried, not accepting any help…and he’d be on his knees with exhaustion the next morning, struggling not to drift off to sleep at college.
But he did love Eleanor, a small voice reminds me. He’d have had no sleep at all because she’d had a bad night, and then still be able to beam at her, one thousand percent besotted, when she did something cute, like rub his arm with her tiny hand as he bottle fed her the next morning. He loved her, and he was happy.
Tentatively, I allow myself to have another go at picturing what the future would look like if I just…went ahead with this. A son, a baby boy with Leo’s cheeky smile charming everyone he meets. Or a daughter, the apple of her daddy’s eye, wrapping him around her little finger.
Be balanced, I remind myself. Babies aren’t all smiles and laughs and baby powder and sweet outfits. They scream, they shit, they puke, they have loud meltdowns, they destroy your ability to sleep, they’re a huge and inescapable responsibility that will never give you asingleminute to yourself… Do I have the temperament for that?
Could I learn?
Or am I just…
Not mother material.
I’ve already messaged the girls saying I can’t go to krav maga tonight; another sacrifice. They were surprised, but they offered to ditch class altogether so they wouldn’t get ahead of me in our learning. And they offered to come over so they could be there for me, whatever might have happened. I told them not to, but they might do it anyway. I check the clock on my wall. Three p.m.
I count on my fingers. My brain is roadkill right now, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be about nine thirty, maybe ten in the morning in Louisiana.
And I can think of only one person I want to offload to right now.
Grabbing my phone, ignoring the messages waiting for me and trying not to see who any of them are from, I head to Hangouts to see if Wendy’s online. Dean’s mother is warmer and more loving to me than my own mother, and, while I know she and Leo have a special bond, I know she’ll listen carefully and respectfully, and then give it to me straight without being hard on me.
Sheisthere, the little green circle in her icon letting me know that I can talk to her.
I start to type something, but I can’t think of anything coherent to write. So, without overthinking it, I tap the video call button.
It takes a few rings, but she answers eventually, wearing an apron and looking like she has a little flour or powdered sugar on her cheek.
“Sadie,” she cries happily, like I’m one of her favourite people in the world. “How are you,bebe? I’m just trying to make bananas foster cheesecake, and it -petale, what’s wrong?”
It took five seconds of hearing her voice for my eyes to fill with tears. The moment she asked me what was wrong, that was it: I burst into noisy sobs.
“Oh, sweetie,” she says with concern, “oh, I wish I could hug you, honey. Tell me what’s happened?”
She’s patient with me while I get myself under control. Well, as close to under control as I am able to be right now. I’m still hiccupping and pausing to try to stop crying as the whole sorry mess comes pouring out of me. From the aftermath of the wedding, to how easy, almost too easy, falling into being withhim has been, to throwing up yesterday morning and the results of the pregnancy test.
She listens, but she remains silent, not giving away her own emotions about this, for which I am grateful.
I tell her my doubts about my suitability for being a mum, hugely relieved when she doesn’t insist that of course I can do it, even though the baby’s father is her beloved nephew. Denying my fears doesn’t make them go away, and I appreciate that she doesn’t try.
“Well,” she says on a sigh, “first of all, how are you feeling? Physically?”
I rub my hands under my eyes, pretty much cried out after that outburst. “I’ve been sick a couple of times, and my boobs are sore.”
She smiles the knowing smile of someone who’s been there. “Poor sweetheart. It will pass.”
The words ‘if you choose to go through with it’ are unspoken.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “There doesn’t seem to be a right answer. I can’t…I don’t know how…” I bury my head in my hands. “Why did this have to happen?”
“Sadie,” she begins, and pauses to consider her words. “Take away all the practicalities. They can be sorted out either way, and a lot easier than you think. This is the sort of decision that can’t be made with your head. Or your heart, to be honest with you. You’re going to have to go with your gut. Listen to your raw instinct: what doyouwant? Do you want this baby, or not?” She gives me a gentle smile. “Because there are no half measures. No changing your mind once you decide. You can’t have one foot in and one foot out. It’s full commitment now, or nothing. And that goes for the babyandfor Leo. Kit uses this phrase, and I hate it, but I’ll use it now because it’s apt: you need to piss or get off the pot.” She wrinkles her nose as she says it.
“Shoot or put down the gun,” I say dully, remembering that phrase I thought to myself when it came to taking the leap of faith with Leo or letting him go, that first night we slept together. This baby is nature’s way of forcing me to decide once and for all, I guess.
In spite of the turmoil, I relish that unique feeling of tiredness and dull relief having spilt my guts to someone close to me, someone who isn’t judging or angry, but only cares how I’m feeling.
“It’s not fair on you, or the baby, or Leo, if you try to skirt around the edges and hedge your bets still,ami. I’m not going to try to influence you either way, because that wouldn’t be fair… All I will say is, be sure, and stand by your decision. There’s no right or wrong answer, only what feels best to you. But once you’vemadethat choice, that’s it. No going back.”
