2002 - Wake up (14 page)

At the same time, it’s true, a baby is a cute contraceptive. But why get upset about it? It doesn’t take a man a minute to relieve his libido.

No, the point at issue is not us, it’s him: John Junior doesn’t seem to me to sleep as well beside his mother as away from her. If I take him to a spare room and only bring him back to Lily for feeding (yes, me with a draining day ahead, do I need this, people ask, such disruption? Surely we could afford a wise gnarled nanny; a nubile au pair; a housekeeper from a poverty-stricken country, ugly and devoted? Those shadow occupants of wealthy homes? I’m sure we could) then John Junior will sleep still and silent for three hours between feeds—as does Lily.

When he spends the whole night beside his mother, however, John J. snuffles and snorts in his sleep, half-wakes and, smelling her milky breasts there, demands feeding. She is woken, and feeds him. I tell her he’s sluicing fresh milk down his gullet to only half-digested milk in his stomach. She does agree that he only sucks plentifully after three hours’ sleep or more.

Most of Lily’s friends leave their babies to cry in their own room at night until they realise there’s no point in crying and lie down again. Sleep training. Obtain decent nights for themselves so they can get back to work or, as my wife puts it, get back to paying their mortgage. She knows how unlucky they are, how lucky she is; which she resents, of course, but that’s another matter. She doesn’t need or want to get back to work.

Sleep training, then, is the prevailing orthodoxy, and Lily fights it. She says our son wants to be close to us, that separation is cruel: it answers the parents’ needs, not the baby’s.

“We’ve spent a million years sleeping together,” she claims. “We must be mad to have stopped.”

She quotes anthropological examples at me. Dwindling tribes whose parents hoick their kids on hip, in sling, all day long, and bundle up
en famille
at night. The examples are almost archaeological, the reason for which Lily unwittingly alludes to even as she cites them. “Indulgent parents,” she says, “babies who are listened to. They make gentle societies.”

“I believe it,” I say, omitting to point out that her gentle, isolated tribes are forever disappearing. The empires of our age are harsh towards their children. Look around. We’re aggressive, and successful. I say nothing. I don’t want John J. to grow up a lout; let our sons and daughters share our beds, I tell Lily.

§

John Junior loves to kick: in the bath, or lying on his back with his naked legs in the air. And his hands, the way he moves his fingers in the air sometimes, he makes me think of a pianist flexing his fingers. About to play.

§

A letter arrived amongst the post I took up on Lily’s breakfast tray the other Saturday morning, addressed not to her or to me but to our son. It was a copy of one he gets sent regularly to remind his guardians—us—that he’s overdue his immunisation. Less than five months old and he should have had a skinful of jabs by now: three single-dose injections for Hib and three triple doses for diphtheria, whooping cough and tetanus. Pincushions, his dimply upper arms and fleshy outer thighs! Not to mention three doses of polio vaccine administered by mouth, revolting drops on his tongue.

My wife is adamant in her refusal of all persuasion from the medical establishment—including, she claims, her GP threatening to strike us as a family off her register.

“She practically accused me of child abuse,” Lily said. “But the fact is she’s paid a bonus when she reaches a target of babies immunised in her practice.”

“That’s serious pressure,” I said.

“She’s afraid I’d influence other parents, too.”

“A virus of resistance.”

“Look,” Lily told me. “While I’m breastfeeding him, he has my maternal immunity. To measles, mumps and rubella at least. And chicken pox. It’s because I got those childhood ailments that I can protect our son from them.”

“Honey,” I said, “diseases that once crippled and killed countless children have been eradicated in this country.”

“Yes, through clean drinking water. Proper drains. Decent diet. You told me yourself how potato consumption abolished scurvy.”

“Come on. Partly through a comprehensive childhood immunisation programme.”

Lily nodded ironically. “Sure. Last time there was a campaign to immunise all children up to the age of sixteen with the measles and rubella vaccine—all kids, mind, even those who’d already had their supposedly full series of jabs—to prevent a forthcoming epidemic.”

“Yes? What about it?”

“Eight million doses were administered.”

“That’s a lot of children. It sounds like a comprehensive amount to me.”

“Supplied by a single drug company. It turned out the entire batch just happened to be approaching its sell-by date. It had to be used, or thrown away.”

My wife munched her toast, sipped her tea, between sentences. Our son was at her breast the whole time. She’s amazing. I sighed. “Where on earth do you get your facts from, darling? Don’t tell me. That homeopath friend of yours? Or what’s her name—the astrologer?” About large corporations, pharmaceutical ones in particular, Lily is valiantly cynical. Oh yes, of rational, provable science she’s relentlessly sceptical. Only the flakey stuff does she take at face value.

“We all got measles when we were kids, John. Didn’t we? Chicken pox. Don’t you remember? One of the problems with this whole thing is these vaccines wear off—and people are then contracting what would have been mild childhood diseases as teenagers, or adults. When they’re not mild at all.”

“It’s a complicated subject,” I kind of allowed. “You know what we need, don’t you?”

“What?”

“It’s clear.
Safe
vaccines.”

Lily frowned. “I suppose.”

§

Yes. That’s right. Safe vaccines. We’re going to supply them. We’re going to make real money. We are. Simon and I have planned the future. At the moment you take your child to the clinic for a vaccine for measles, mumps, rubella, the nice cruel nurse administers a jab in your little one’s thigh, making him or her cry, leaving a lump under the skin. The defilement. No longer. Have a spoonful of mashed potato. Here, child, eat a chip, I see government contracts. Honours. Money.

What do you know, I may even get around to doing some of the renovation that crumbling millstone of a house of ours desperately needs.

§

While day slowly dawns outside I can be found lying in the spare bed beside John Junior with a mug of coffee. Smooth Colombian. I need it, I’m yawning, when John J.’s had a bad night. And you don’t know what a bad night is until you’ve had a baby. It’s one of the banal revelations awaiting. There are others. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind apologising to those acquaintances over the years who’d say of their crying infants, “I wonder if she wants a feed now?” or ‘Does he want to have a walk in the sling?”

I’d think, How can you not know, you idiot, isn’t it straightforward enough for you? How much more simple could it be than this tiny blob of primal needs? He⁄she⁄it needs to eat and excrete and sleep and, yes, to be caressed and held and entertained. I mean, if the babe’s unhappy you have a limited number of choices. Choose!

Or the odd occasions I’ve waited to go for a walk with someone with a toddler, I’ve stood outside fuming to myself, For Christ’s sake, we said we’d leave at ten, it’s half past already, what are you people doing in there? Get the kid, put it in the buggy, let’s go!

Now I know better and I’d like to say sorry, I really would. I want to pop back in time and find those people in their hallways, wrestling with nappies and clothes and recalcitrant limbs, and hats and strollers and aching shoulders, and say, “Hey, I know that was me standing outside cursing, me the single man, the callow bachelor, in case you picked up the vibe, but
the real me
is here now to apologise for him, he knows nothing.”

Or the years Greg came in to work hollow-eyed, unable to converse the way we had before his kids came: disembodied and distracted. Now I know. That nights can be eternal, hours become epochs, ages of sleeplessness. In the night, however torrid it is, you know you’ll have to drag yourself sluggish through the next day. This thought is with you, and with hundreds, thousands of fellow parents all over the country walking around their living rooms in an endless soothing circuit, or bumping the baby up and down stairs, or administering fingers dipped in fennel, or pushing their pram along the streets, or driving around the block, or standing helpless above the cots of their colicky, gripe-stricken, squalling beloveds.

Short-tempered men are forced to dig into their unknown selves, to mine hidden reserves of patience deep in their characters. Selfish women who thought all sacrifice was a sign of weakness find themselves called upon to give, and are surprised by a thin sediment of joy lurking at the bottom of exhaustion. How many fail, and cast their children loose and unprotected into the storms of the life ahead, but not all, no. In the dead of night, invisible in dim bedrooms, unnoticed by history, such heroism, such sacrifice, is being offered. And what do you know? It’s my turn now!

But how long a night lasts with a baby. The blanket of night becomes subdivided—the hours separate from one another—into chunks of specific activity: John J. sleeps a couple of hours, then wakes, and feeds for forty-five minutes. Sits up wide-eyed and playful for one hour, becomes tired, dopey but fractious as he creeps slowly back to the edge of sleep over the course of half an hour until he drops off in my arms, on Lily’s shoulder, one or other of our fingers in his mouth. He then dreams peacefully for an hour before beginning to fret in his sleep, and this is the worst time, the worst of the mini-epochs of the night: when John Junior grunts and groans, brings his knees up to his chest, snuffles and grumbles, shakes his little head, brings clenched fists up to his face. It’s impossible to sleep beside him. We lift him up, put him on our chests, move him on to his side, his back, his front. Nothing really helps much, except the welcome splurt and rumble in his nappy. Until finally he wakes, and so begins the next cycle.

Whereas once anything less than seven hours’ uninterrupted unconsciousness left one unnourished and grouchy, now the night breaks up and sleep comes in rich nuggets, each one filled with the nutrients of oblivion. Woken by the baby’s wail you check the figures on the luminous alarm clock and say to your wife, who has herself been woken moments earlier by her tumid breasts, “Two thirty. That’s over three hours.” And you can feel the bounty of all those two hundred minutes of deep sleep in your loosened head, swollen limbs, rested cells.

§

Shopping for the baby before it was born drove Lily crazy. Don’t get me wrong, she wanted everything for him, but the sheer quantity of choice oppressed her. Slings and Wilkinets and backpacks. Prams and pushchairs, strollers and joggers and buggies. Carrycots and car seats. It was less the difficulty of choosing that irritated her, more, simply, the wasteful existence of so wide a variety of objects.

But I mustn’t draw a picture of my pregnant wife as an angry harridan. Last autumn was warm, at night we lay glued together. When it cooled down we canoodled like teenagers. And I made Lily laugh like never before, I can’t describe how, from silly slapstick with my lanky body. Pregnancy made her susceptible to humour, and she farted with laughter. She enjoyed what her body was doing.

§

I remember, though, one evening a little over a year ago we were arguing about the same kind of thing as the baby-stuff choice. This would be about the time our son was made. Maybe the very moment. Lily was banging on about the iniquities of free trade again.

“Listen,” I said. “Globalisation is what makes all this possible.”

“All what possible?” she demanded.

Our lives
, I could have said, but I needed to convince her with specifics. “All this,” I said, pincering the hem of my jacket between thumb and forefinger. I was clutching at straws. I wrestled myself free of the jacket. It was a gamble, I knew that. “Look,” I said, triumphantly relieved. “
Made in Italy
.”

“Yes?” she said. “And what does that prove? Precisely?”

She was right. It was a partial victory, no victory at all.

A glance made me realise I stood a better chance with her: she was wearing her usual mix of clothes, bought from a combination of ethnic shops and sports outfitters. Floppy cottons and wools in bright colours, and tight manmade monochromes.

“One sample proves nothing,” I said, advancing towards her. “For a study of this nature, we need at least ten separate items of data.”

Before she knew what was going on I’d lifted her arms up straight above her head—where, taken by surprise, they unnaturally remained, holding up an invisible ceiling—and I grabbed the bottom of the green and orange sweater she had on. I shimmied it up her torso. I think if I’d been able to accomplish the theft in one clean sweep she’d have let me, but her next layer down was a fleecy thing upon which the sweater got fraught. I’d only managed to pull the bottom of it up over her face when her muffled voice exclaimed, “Hey! What are you up to?” As she dropped her arms. “What do you think you’re doing?”

My wife complains that I have tunnel vision, and it’s true: once I start something, I’m constitutionally incapable of giving up on it, of allowing it to remain unfinished. I kept pulling the jumper up Lily’s chest and arms, tugging it over her squirming protestations. As I pulled she, fortunately, backed away from me, which only played into my hands: the orange and green pullover sprang free towards me.

My wife staggered a step or two as she regained her balance. “Did you just do what I think you did?” she gasped.

I ignored her, knowing I had to forestall either the presumption of my assault, or my victory in the ensuing tug-of-war, becoming an issue: I werit straight for the label.

“Look!” I said.

Still recovering, Lily was unsure yet whether to respond to my general behaviour or this specific command.

“See!” I said, thrusting the label towards her.

“
Made in Guatemala
, ” she read aloud. “So?”