They say that immediately after you give birth, you forget about the pain.
I’d always thought that must be a cliché, but as her tiny hand wrapped around my index finger, I did; I forgot. And not just the pain. Everything that had been worrying me throughout the pregnancy- the fear of being a single mother, the panic about whether I’d know how to care for her, the gnawing anxiety about how I’d support us both- all of it went away in that moment.
Another thing that they say is that all babies are beautiful. This is a little less true. Looking through the eyes of love definitely helps matters, but objectively speaking, my little pixie couldn’t have been honestly described as ‘beautiful’ that first day.
Her face bore that ‘scrunched’ look, the result of a (lengthy!) natural birth, and her hair was so sparse and fine that she bordered on bald. There was a vivid red mark down the right side of her face (that midwife needed to trim her nails!) and I could already see that she had her father’s slightly weak chin.
But her eyes. They were beautiful. I named her Violet Elizabeth for the colour of them, just like Elizabeth Taylor’s; so inky and unusual in hue that they could never really be described with an adjective as plain as ‘blue.’
She slept in my arms that first night, a warm, milk-scented weight, until drowsiness overtook me. I just couldn’t bear to put her down.
Those first few days were blissful. I know a lot of new mothers say they feel exhausted, tearful or a bit uncertain, but I guess I was one of the lucky ones- everything just seemed to come naturally. The nappy changes, the night feeds, none of it fazed me.
When the Health Visitor popped in, she laughed. “Like a duck to water,” she said, as she observed a feed and change of clothing.
A steady stream of visitors ensured that I had little time to feel lonely or overwhelmed, and as little Violet neared the 2 month mark, she was blossoming into the sort chubby cheeked cherub you see on greetings cards and calendars. Her hair thickened to a dark golden cloud around her face, the scratch on her cheek had long since faded, and when she smiled, she charmed everyone.
Our guests would cluck and coo over her, waving toys in front of her or putting on silly voices. “She’s adooorable!” they’d say, and I’d brace myself for the inevitable, “Come on, beautiful, come and have a cuddle with Uncle/Auntie ———-!”
I know, it’s ridiculous, but she’s my baby, my little pixie. And I love holding her, smelling that special baby-smell from atop her head, feeling her little tummy move in and out with each breath. She’s my baby. I hate letting other people hold her, I worry in case they somehow hurt her or won’t give her back to me. New-mother paranoia, I know, but I really hate it.
So I found reasons to avoid it. It’s time for her feed or her nap, or I think maybe she needs changing. It’s getting late, maybe you should leave?
"She’ll turn into one of those clingy children," my mum warned, when I barely restrained myself from snatching Violet back from her arms, or hovered over the crib as she slept. I just smiled to myself. It didn’t matter. She’d know how much she was loved and wanted, and that’s the most important thing. Clingy be damned!
So for the most part motherhood has been good to me. Obviously, it hasn’t all been plain sailing- she gave me quite a fright a few weeks ago, and we ended up at A and E for a few hours of our Saturday night. It’d happened very suddenly. One minute my little pixie was lying on her playmat, gurgling away at the neon pink star that was her favourite item from the garish assortment of ‘stimulating’ items hanging from the mobile above her head, and the next, she started screaming like she was in pain.
I nearly jumped out of my skin. She’d never done anything like that before. She cried sometimes, of course, she was only a few months old, but never like this! I picked her up and tried to soothe her, but she only cried more loudly, barely pausing to take breaths between heart-wrenching wails. My insides twisted in panic, my mouth went dry and for a second I think I stopped breathing as my body responded instinctively to the pain of my little one.
I tried everything. Feeding, changing, walking around, singing, toys….nothing made a difference. Still she screamed. And now she was starting to feel really hot. With her still in my arms, I went up into the nursery and fetched the baby thermometer. Her temperature was sky high, so I took her straight to the car and drove down to the hospital, heart fluttering all the way as I tried to concentrate on the road through the sounds of her screaming.
When we got into the car park, she stopped screaming. Just stopped completely. She was breathing shallowly, and when I leant over to get her out of the baby carrier, she didn’t look at me. Those big, purple pools seemed focused on something very far away. I ran into the hospital and gabbled to the receptionist about what had happened. They fetched a doctor straight away, a short, bespectacled man with an air of reassurance.
He examined Violet quickly and methodically: pulse, temperature, reaction to light. I stood by the side of the bed, trembling as he did his job. This man, this stranger, was of more help to my baby than I was. What kind of mother didn’t know what to do when her baby was sick? Was I a bad mother?
"Well," he said, finally, "Violet does have a temperature, but it’s really nothing to worry about. Probably just a seasonal cold, it can be quite distressing for a little one the first time they are unwell, and obviously quite upsetting for mum, too."
The breath I had unwittingly been holding throughout his brisk examination came out in a ‘whoosh!’ “You’re sure she’s ok?” I asked, my voice small and breathy. “She’s fine,” he assured me with a smile, “No need to worry. Now, if the symptoms reoccur, you can treat them with ordinary over-the-counter medicines. They have a baby-safe version of Calpol now, and that should do just fine. Obviously if her temperature spikes again, you should bring her back in, but I’m sure there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
After he said his goodbyes, I went and just sat in the waiting room for about ten minutes, holding Violet close. I was still shaking, replaying the events of the evening over and over in my mind like a bad movie stuck on a loop.
Sitting under the glare of fluorescents, the smell of disinfectant clogging my nostrils and the noise of assorted drunks demanding treatment for self-inflicted ailments jangling my nerve endings, I clung to her little body and tried to remain calm. I was afraid to go home, afraid that the awful screams would start again, that my baby would be in pain. “He said she was fine,” I whispered to myself, pressing my lips to her forehead, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo and milk, “He said she was fine. She’s fine.” After a little while, I felt calm enough to drive us both back home.
Violet still wasn’t quite herself. She kept staring blankly at nothing in particular, was reluctant to have her feed, and although she wasn’t registering a particularly high temperature, she still felt warm. That night I sat awake with her for hours, holding her in my arms, talking softly to her. She was a little snuffly for the first few hours, not her normal deep, smooth breaths, but at least she wasn’t screaming anymore. She wasn’t in pain. I made a mental note to buy some baby Calpol in the morning.
So, yes, not all plain sailing. But within a few days she’d stopped making that strange snuffling sound and her temperature was down. Relieved, I carried on with my routine. Washing, ironing, changes, bath time, nap time, feeding.
A few friends called round, but I sent them away. After the scare I’d had, the last thing I wanted was to have to hand her over to the world and his wife for cuddles. I held her close, sang to her and played with her, enjoying the time alone. Those big, purple eyes gazed up into mine, trustingly, and I smiled as I stroked her curls away from her face.
Of course, when my mum called round yesterday, there was no saying no to her. “Violet, grandma’s here!” I sang, showing my mum through into the kitchen. Violet was in her high chair next to the worktop. I put the kettle on and asked if mum wanted tea or coffee. She didn’t answer. “Mum?” I repeated, “I said, tea or coffee? I’ve got some of those biscuits you like, as well, if you’re not still on that silly diet…?” “Um, I’ll have tea, please, darling,” she said, seeming flustered. “Everything alright, mum?” “Y-yes, yes, fine. And how are you? Is….is everything…fine with you?” “Yes, we’re doing great, aren’t we, Violet?” I gently tweaked a chubby cheek and pulled a funny face at her. Mum nodded, frowning. I looked at her for a second. She seemed distracted. Well, I’d wait. I knew better than to push her when something was wrong. She’d tell me in her own time.
I busied myself boiling the kettle, cups and teaspoons clattering. “After mummy and grandma have their tea, it’ll be time for your drink, won’t it, pixie?” I said, kissing Violet on top of her head.
My mum was unusually quiet that afternoon, she put it down to a migraine, so I handed Violet to her and went to fetch some ibuprofen. “Five minutes,” I joked, “that’s all you get, you know I get all jealous when someone else has a cuddle!” When I came back we did a trade, the tablets for my little pixie. She went home not long after.
This evening, I had just settled down on the sofa to watch CBeebies, Violet in my arms, freshly bathed and powdered; when the doorbell rang. I groaned and stood up. “Sorry, Violet, looks like we might miss Peppa Pig this evening,” I smiled down at her.
When I opened the door, my mum was there, accompanied by two men I’d didn’t know. The three of them are standing in my kitchen right now. One of them has just been sick in the sink, the acidic smell is making my stomach churn. The other, tall, with beady eyes, is looking at me, hardly blinking.
My mum is standing behind him, frantically apologising. “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what to do…” I cling to Violet, frightened. “What’s going on?” I ask, sweat beading on my forehead. “You need to come with us, madam,” says beady-eyes. “What are you talking about? Has something happened? Oh, god….Mum, has something happened to dad?!” My mum stares at me with watery eyes. “Look at Violet, darling.” “Wha-” “Just- look at her, please, darling.”
I look down at the bundle in my arms. Dark golden curls, huge violet eyes, her father’s nose. I hold her close, press my lips to her cold forehead and breathe the scent of decay barely masked by talcum powder. Collapsing to my knees on the kitchen floor, my body shakes with the force of the sobs I’m trying to choke back. The world fades to grey around me, and my breasts ache, heavy with the milk that Violet doesn’t need anymore- hasn’t needed for the past few weeks.
I know I should have called an ambulance when her snuffles became rasps and her lips edged with a faint blue tinge. I know, I should have called someone.
But I just couldn’t bear to let her go.
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Credits to: photofreecreepypasta
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