Welcome to Mother’s Gonna Work it Out – a newsletter not just for mothers with children, but for everyone who cares for anyone.
As I wade through a week of full-time childcare, guided by the siren song of the promise of a holiday by the sea, it’s mad to think how different summer looked only a couple of years ago. Back then I was pregnant and practically under house arrest.
In the spirit of recollection, I’d like to share a piece I wrote for a book about positive experiences that came out of the pandemic. I almost turned the commission down when it landed because I couldn’t really think of anything. But, as I picked through the rubble, I realised it was a time of superhuman strength that deserved celebrating. I’d been presented with the opportunity to take a long hard look at all my component parts and figure out a better way of putting them back together.
Here’s what I came up with. Thanks to Norm Bour, who came up with the idea for the book.
Build back better
‘Ah! A pandemial!’ The barista’s eyes dance with mirth at her wordplay. I can’t see her mouth from behind the regulation blue medical mask she wears, but I’m guessing she’s showing us all her teeth at once.
The pandemial she speaks of is the 11-month-old boy strapped to my chest. His name is Dexter and he was born in the thick of the Covid-19 pandemic – the detail that precipitated this particular interchange.
‘Did you have to give birth on your own?’ she asks in the same giddy manner, high on disaster as she offers me the card reader to pay for the coffee I feel obliged to buy because the café is new and I like to support local businesses in my neighbourhood.
‘Was it awful?’
I’m grateful to my own regulation blue medical mask for shielding my famously expressive face. I hold the scalding coffee away from Dexter’s curious hands and wish her a swift goodbye and good luck with the new shop.
Yes, having a baby during a global pandemic was awful. And a lot more besides.
Dexter first made himself known shortly after I flew home to London from a work trip in Japan. It was February 2020 and Covid-19 had yet to take hold in the UK. The virus wasn’t a particular consideration as we planned our film shoot in Hiroshima – our producer gave us some masks to wear when we met at the airport, but that was it.
I remember being struck by the fact that all the reception staff at our hotel wore masks and a notice on the desk informed guests that Covid-19 was the reason. But there was no instruction for us to wear them, or to regularly sanitise our hands, or even to keep our distance.
Back in London, the general consensus was still that Covid-19 was too far away to be a concern, and my partner, Rick, and I were too consumed with the fact that there was a Dexter on the way to give it much thought. It turned out jet lag and a punishing shoot schedule weren’t the only reasons for my feeling exhausted, dizzy and a bit sick.
Then people started to fall ill, and there was no avoiding the fact that this potent virus had landed. Initially, I was grateful when London started to lock down. Not only did it seem a prudent measure to contain the spread of infection, but it also meant I didn’t have to cram on claustrophobic trains at rush hour while feeling like I was going to throw up on everyone, or make lame excuses as to why I wasn’t able to go for a drink after work.
I also started to worry about catching this thing – especially with my passenger on board. There weren’t yet sufficient studies on how the it affected a foetus, and the unknown was terrifying.
Fortunately I could work from home, but Rick wasn’t so lucky. He runs a supermarket, so worked long hours managing hordes of panicked customers desperate to stock up on essentials. He’d come home, eyes glazed with tiredness, recounting tales of fights over toilet rolls and tins of sardines. We kept our distance from each other until all his clothes were in the washing machine and he’d scrubbed himself down in the shower. He spent a fortune on taxis to and from work to avoid taking public transport and minimise his chances of getting ill.
The reality of the situation bit hard when we had our first antenatal scan at the hospital. Rick wasn’t allowed to come with me, instructed by a voluble receptionist to wait by the lifts with the other anxious partners and friends.
I went into the room, alone, and lay down on the bed for the sonographer to scan my growing stomach. ‘What if it’s dead?’ were the words that came out of my mouth, surprising both of us. But he wasn’t dead. Dexter was very alive, and very well, and even swam close to the camera so we could have a good look at his murky form. The sonographer printed some photos and offered them to me. ‘I wish I could give you a hug,’ she told me. I really wanted to hug her back.
Not all my friends and family saw me pregnant. Only those in walking or cycling distance, or those brave enough to take the train. My parents, who live abroad, have yet to meet their grandson due to travel restrictions.
Dexter arrived on 27 October after I’d had another scan on my own, all my midwife appointments on my own, and a series of pre-pregnancy yoga lessons via Zoom with other mothers-to-be also holed up on their own at home. But I didn’t have to give birth on my own. I was fortunate to be at a hospital which allowed partners to be present for the duration, and to stay for a night afterwards too. I have friends who weren’t so lucky.
Back home with Dexter, Rick feathered our nest with love and lots of soup. There was a strange, luminous beauty to it being just the three of us, uninterrupted by the outside world. After the horror of childbirth, I was in no fit state to see anyone. And when we did have visitors, I felt conspicuous. I was in an enormous amount of physical discomfort and having someone watch me lower myself gingerly into a chair felt confronting. And then Dexter would cry and I wasn’t sure what he needed, and breastfeeding was torture, and I wasn’t really in the mood for the endless ‘have you tried?’ suggestions. I just wanted to be with my family, and Covid-19 granted me this wish.
But when Rick returned to work, the isolation grew suffocating and metastasised into something uglier. A health visitor, dressed top to toe in PPE, told me I had postnatal depression. I disagreed, asking how anyone could feel happy with very little sleep, a broken body and a tiny baby to look after. She cocked her head, but I was unable to read her expression behind the mask and plastic visor.
It was a particularly frosty November morning when the doorbell rang.
‘Don’t answer it!’ I shouted down to Rick, who was home for the day. ‘I’m not here.’
He did answer it because it was my birthday, and he was anticipating a delivery. What he didn’t anticipate was the sight of a midwife at the door.
‘Is everything OK?’ I heard him ask.
A thunder of approaching footsteps on the stairs and into the lounge rushed Abimbole, the midwife who’d come to check on Dexter shortly after we’d returned from the hospital.
She took one look at me, slumped on the sofa with Dexter in the crook of an arm, and launched into the chorus of 50 Cent’s ‘In Da Club (It’s Your Birthday)’ over and over again until she was satisfied I’d got the message. Then she presented me with a gift bag containing a hand-made card, a scented candle and some chocolates. She’d remembered my birthday because we shared the same day. She made my day.
Yes, having a baby during a pandemic was awful, but there was beauty in the darkness too. And it was in this darkness that I realised I’d been gifted an opportunity to build myself back better.
When Dexter was six-months old, I was asked to write a piece about my experience as a mother thus far. I almost didn’t do it, spooked at the prospect of sharing such intimate details with the world. But this piece came to feel like some sort of mission; to pull others in a similar situation into the biggest hug my arms could manage.
Rick helped me carve out the space to sit down and write, and sitting behind my computer felt like heaven. The luxuriously familiar process of writing helped me order my thoughts. I soon landed on the realisation it’s no bad thing to have my identity – and my body – exploded into a million little pieces, because it offered me an opportunity to put myself back together again, physically, mentally and spiritually, in a far better arrangement.
Build back better. It is indeed a slogan from my least-favourite political party’s 2021 annual conference, but I’m not going to let that spoil the occasion. I get to choose the best bits of what I was, and I’m happier, my brain is sharper, and I’m mostly kinder to myself.
I pull down my mask and take a sip of my coffee (that barista makes a good one, I’ll give her that), the sun kind on my face. Dexter squeals as a bus drives past, his legs bicycling with glee.
A better me is a better Dexter. And a better Dexter will have a positive impact on those around him. His pandemial cohort will have their own opportunity to build back better, both within and without, and it’s our duty to lace them with the love, kindness and support they need in order to live their best lives.