Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 (12 page)

I fry the bacon until it is as crispy as I can make it.

Placing the dead pig flesh on a plate, I remove the chocolate from the fridge and begin to grate it over the bacon.

I don’t know why!

Why
? Why would anyone want bacon and chocolate together?

It’s a culinary travesty!

But… I must not say anything to the creature. Must not let it know my thoughts. It will eat me alive if it knows…

The chocolate melts over the bacon. The smell is horrible, a combination of pig meat and Dairy Milk that makes my stomach revolve like a hotel door.

Slowly, I make my way back upstairs, the plate held out in front of me like an offering to one of the elder gods.

In the bedroom it stirs.

One beady eye stares at me from the duvet cocoon, bidding me enter.

‘Is it crispy?’ it demands.

‘Yes, yes it is indeed crispy,’ I reply in the voice of the smallest mouse. ‘and covered in chocolate, as you requested.’

‘The Bourneville Dark?’

My heart sinks, my palsied hands begin to shake.

‘No mistress, the Dairy Milk. You finished the Bourneville last night.’ I cower, knowing the death blow may come at any time.

It snatches the plate from me, exposing one taloned hand for the briefest of moments.

‘Begone foul slave!’ it tells me… and my soul sings. Today will not be the day I am eaten alive. It spares me for another.

Once more I tug my forelock and back away as it slobbers and stuffs the chocolate covered meat into its ravenous maw.

My heavens, I do not know how much longer I can go on. The suffering.

Oh, the
suffering
!

***

The bacon and chocolate surprise is just the latest in the list of cravings that Laura has developed during the pregnancy.

However disgusting the combination of bacon and chocolate may sound, at least it’s edible.

A few weeks ago we were shopping in Tesco, when I realise I’ve lost my wife.

I search for five minutes before I find her in the detergent aisle with an open box of Daz. She’s sneakily popping one wet finger into the powder and licking it off, a look of ecstasy on her face.

‘No!’ I cry, and rush to snatch the box from her hand.

‘Give it back, Jamie! I want to eat it!’

‘You can’t eat detergent, woman!’

…which is a phrase no sane, reasonable person should ever have to utter.

I’ve done a bit of research about pregnancy and I know that these weird cravings happen. Something to do with the body lacking minerals and vitamins the baby needs. It all sounds perfectly reasonable.

But
detergent
?

In what way does it benefit mother and baby to suck down a load of washing powder?

What is there in a box of Daz that my unborn daughter thinks she needs?

Is she perhaps worried that the womb is getting a bit dirty? Does she think it could do with a good spring clean? If so, it doesn’t bode well for her ability to keep her bedroom tidy in the future, does it?

Detergent isn’t the only cleaning product Laura has inexplicably craved.

I walked into the bathroom a couple of days after the Tesco incident to find her contentedly sucking on a bar of soap like it was an ice lolly. There she was, laid out in the bath, her big belly breaking the surface of the water - with a big bar of Dove stuck in her gob.

The frothing made it look uncomfortably like she’d caught rabies.

I think she’s secretly training me for when the baby comes along. I’ll be an expert at snatching foreign objects from my daughter’s mouth, as I will have spent several months beforehand doing the same with her mother.

The longer this pregnancy goes on, the more I’m starting to realise that having a baby makes a woman lose her mind.

Laura is usually the sensible, clever, down-to-earth half of our relationship. I’m the one prone to flights of fancy, lack of common sense and moments of blinding idiocy. Having the dynamic turned upside down is deeply distressing.

The mood swings are the worst…

Case in point:

I decided last week that what we both needed was a good, hearty meal. One conducted out in public at a restaurant, rather than on our laps in front of Come Dine With Me repeats.

I’d just been paid, so it seemed like a good excuse for us to spend some quality time together in a relaxed atmosphere. We’ve both been working like dogs recently, along with dealing with the ups and downs of the pregnancy, so I thought it would be good for us.

‘Oh Jamie! That sounds like a wonderful idea,’ Laura exclaims when I tell her the plan. She then bursts into tears like I’d just shot her dog.

A couple of months ago I would have been concerned and asked her what was wrong. By this stage though, I’m well used to her bouts of uncontrolled emotion and simply let her cry on my shoulder for a few minutes until she pulls herself together.

‘I thought we could go for Italian.’

This brings on fresh waves of eye water. ‘Oh Jamie! You’re so thoughtful!’

What?

‘It’s just like the date we had. When you made the Piazza Navona in the lounge!’

‘Oh… er, yeah. That’s right.’

That wasn’t the reason I’d actually suggested pizza. I just fancied a quattro formaggi and garlic bread. But if Laura wants to believe I’ve suddenly become Captain Thoughtful Pants then who am I to let her down?

I look at my now sodden shirt. ‘I’ll just go change this and we’ll pop out then’.

‘Excellent!’ Laura beams, and we both go upstairs.

I put on a fresh shirt and go for a wee in the bathroom. Laura is out of my sight for no more than twenty seconds.

In that time though, she has gone from ecstatic about our impromptu night out, to suicidal.

‘I can’t go out!’ she wails from her perch on the end of the bed, in front of the mirror.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m an elephant!’

What?

Has it finally happened? Has my wife completely succumbed to the pressure of giving birth and lost her mind completely? Will I have to spend the rest of my days feeding her buns and mucking out her pen?

‘I’m so fat!’

Ah.

Now I understand.

I come over and sit next to her. ‘You’re not fat, baby. You’re gorgeous.’

‘No! No, look at me! I’m a big, squishy lard monster!’ As if to demonstrate, she pokes herself in the belly.

‘Don’t poke the baby, dear,’ I tell her.

‘Sorry.’

There’s a moment of silence.

‘I’m fatter than a bloody sumo wrestler!’

‘No you’re not. You look absolutely wonderful!’ I’m skating on very thin ice here. ‘You’re having our baby and because of that I’d say you look beautiful.’

Laura smiles. I do a mental back flip of self-congratulation.

‘I do?’

‘You do.’ I kiss her on the forehead. ‘And you’ll keep looking beautiful. It doesn’t matter that you’re going to get even bigger - ’

Oh, fuck it.

…and I was doing so well.

Laura looks at me with abject misery, puts her head in her hands and blubbers.

I stand up. There is nothing – literally
nothing
– I can do to improve this situation.

So I take the coward’s way out and leave. ‘I’m just going to check the restaurant opening times on the laptop, baby.’

Downstairs, I sit hunched over the laptop, wondering who will walk down the stairs next.

Laura could stay in the realms of self pity for the rest of the night, or she could turn into an axe murderer craving my blood. I simply have no idea.

I’ve never been so terrified in my life.

When I hear the footsteps on the stairs I cringe a bit. It’s hard to look at the doorway as Laura enters. But when I do…

Oh my.

She looks amazing.

Laura has changed into the blue maternity dress she picked up last week in town. Her hair is up, showing off her neckline, and the make-up she’s wearing simply accentuates what I consider to be the most beautiful face in the world.

On top of all that, I can see the perfect round globe of her belly beneath the dress. My daughter lies there - beneath her mother’s breast, slowly growing stronger, and heading towards the day when she’ll look at the world with her own eyes.

Laura has never been more beautiful.

‘You look incredible,’ I tell her.

‘Really?’ she says, unsure of herself.

‘Of course.’

‘I’m sorry I keep flying off the handle. I just can’t seem to control myself.’

‘It’s okay.’ I go over and place a hand on her stomach. ‘It’s all going to be worth it gorgeous. You just wait and see.’

Laura smiles and we kiss.

Looks like I’m going to get my quattro formaggi after all!

The happy mood lasts about an hour and a half - which is quite good these days.

Unfortunately the restaurant is
very
busy and our order takes a long time to come.

Too
long for my pregnant wife, whose temporary good nature is slipping away faster than a greasy squirrel on a frozen slide.

‘How bloody long is this going to take?’ she mutters, tearing a bread roll and stuffing one half in her mouth.

‘Relax, baby. They’re busy.’

‘I know they’re busy Jamie, I’ve got eyes haven’t I?’ Her head whips round. ‘This is bloody ridiculous though. We’ve been sat here nearly an hour.’

‘I’m sure they’re coming.’

And come they do about five minutes later, just as Laura is starting to stab her fork into the tablecloth. I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking the worst may have been averted.

‘Sorry for the delay folks,’ the waiter says. ‘Here are your pizzas.’ He deposits two plates of round, cheesy goodness in front of us and prepares to leave.

‘What exactly do you call this?’ Laura says, steel running through every syllable.

‘Your pizza madam.’

‘This isn’t my pizza. I ordered a margherita. This is quite plainly a visuvio.’ She glares at the waiter, fork hovering over the table in one white knuckle. ‘Do I
look
like I want a visuvio?