Tell Me I'm Wrong

Chapter 2

2 Megan

I close the front door and immediately feel a surge of panic and dread. Now I’m on my own until Chris comes home. Our parents have been great in helping to take some of the load off me, looking after Evie while I try to catch up on some much-needed sleep, but Chris’s mum can’t keep her all day and inevitably it’s just the two of us alone again.

I don’t believe babies as young as Evie should be babysat by other people, but there really is no other option. I was told new mothers tended to struggle a bit after the birth of a baby, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.

We’ve never been able to bond properly. I went in with all the best intentions, but those very quickly went out the window. Evie wouldn’t take to breastfeeding, no matter what I did. I wouldn’t risk my child’s health by using formula, so I’ve had to express and store it in bottles. It means she’s getting all the nutrition she needs, but it definitely hasn’t helped us bond.

They say the bond between a new mother and her baby is immediate and irreplaceable. I thought maybe my bond with Evie was just starting a bit later than usual, but six months on I still feel burdened as opposed to flowing with love.

I haven’t told Chris any of this — not word for word — but he knows. It’s affected our relationship too. He’s been more distant, spending more and more time away from home. The school holidays usually meant we’d get to spend plenty of time together. We were delighted when we found out we were expecting. I had visions of us going out on walks and generally just spending more time together as a family.

As it turns out, none of that happened. He very quickly started going out on more fishing days and generally finding excuses not to be at home. He said he needed his space. He isn’t getting any sleep or relaxation at home, but then again neither am I. That’s what parenting’s all about.

He’s always liked his fishing, and I assumed it would be something he’d either try to maintain or would probably, inevitably, have to cut back on once Evie was born. Instead, it went the other way. He goes to a spot about two miles out of the village, where the stream opens up into the main river. He used to go at the weekends, getting up at the crack of dawn and coming back mid-morning to get his planning and marking done for the week. Now he’s coming back later and later, often early in the evening.

It’s amazing how all your plans and ideals can go out of the window so quickly. I had all these visions of a wonderful family unit, the three of us on days out together, smiling and laughing. How wrong I was.

I look at the clock on the mantelpiece. Four thirty. It’ll probably be a good hour or so before Chris is even home.

I’ve got to admit it — he’s good with Evie. The only problem is that he’s never here. I know he’s struggling too. He’s finding it hard to come to terms not only with being a new parent, but dealing with what I’m going through. In the early days I was desperate to bond with Evie, yearning to create some sort of deep connection with her. Chris didn’t even get a look in. Now I wonder whether it’s my fault he’s been so distant.

Evie’s in her bouncer on the kitchen floor as I shovel handfuls of washing into the washing machine. That’s one thing no-one tells you about having children. Despite the fact you’ve only added one tiny half-person to the family, somehow your washing loads quadruple in size.

The machine’s ancient, and after each wash I need to drag it back across the room to where it’s meant to be. The noise is horrendous too, so I take Evie out of the bouncer and jab the button on the front of the washing machine to get it started, before quickly closing the door and taking her through to the living room.

After a few moments, she’s started fussing. I pick her up and hold her against me, trying to soothe her, as I go to grab a bottle of expressed milk from the fridge. As soon as I enter the kitchen she’s wailing, the noise of the washing machine rattling around both of our heads. I close the door behind me again and go into the downstairs bathroom, running the hot tap and filling the sink with warm water, to bring the temperature of the milk bottle up.

‘It’s alright,’ I say to her in the calmest voice I can muster. ‘It’s alright. It’s just warming up. Won’t be a minute.’

She coughs and splutters as she cries, and I have visions of having to change yet another top. More for the washing machine.

After a couple of minutes, the temperature of the milk is lukewarm and I bring the bottle through to the living room.

Evie feeds well. She always does just after she’s been with George and Maggie. Part of me wonders whether they time it so that I’ll have to do a feed after she’s dropped back here. An attempt to help me bond with her. The thought is quite sweet, but it really isn’t working. I hope to God it does, though. I hope to God it does. Because if it doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.