Page 42 of The Mother-in-Law

22

LUCY

The past . . .

Lightning doesn’t strike twice, that’s what they say. Well ‘they’ can jump off a cliff, because there was a man, Roy Sullivan, who was struck by lightning seven times during his life.Seven!What must Roy have thought every time he heard someone say that lightning didn’t strike twice? I get the point, of course—it’s not common. But that must have just made poor old Roy feel even worse. Roy survived all seven strikes, which is more inspiring if you ask me. He was found dead in his bed at the age of seventy-one after shooting himself in the head—and I dare say all those ‘lightning doesn’t strike twice’ folk should shoulder their share of responsibility for that. Because the fact is, sometimes lightning does strike more than once. It did for Roy and it has for me.

Because I have a second child with colic.

I’m sitting in my recliner holding a nipple to my screaming infant’s mouth. My recliner is in the lounge room, which is now the playroom, TV room and Harriet’s bedroom. An episode ofGame of Thronesplays on the television and I half-watch it. I’ve watched this episode three times now and I’m still not entirely sure what’s going on. Too many characters in this damn show. Still, there’s Jon Snow who makes it worth the effort.

‘Just feed!’ I hiss-whisper to Harriet.

I thank my lucky stars that at least Archie is out of my hair as I do this. Diana comes on Tuesdays now and takes Archie to the park for an hour and a half, and for this I’m truly thankful. Archie adores Diana for many reasons, not least of which is because she packs him full of babycinos and marshmallows and lets him run riot, and I am fine with this because I have a newborn with colic and if a murderous gangster offered to take my kid off my hands for a couple of hours I’d be sorely tempted.

Harriet is a piece of work, I can tell this already at three months old. She won’t go to anyone else, not even to Ollie, and when I try to hand her over, she sucks in a breath and watches me with knowing eyes.Why do you even bother, Mum? I’m about to scream so loudly the neighbours will think you are trying to kill me. They might even call the police. You’d better . . . Oh there we go, Daddy’s handing me back. Don’t make this silly mistake again.

Diana persists in trying to hold Harriet week after week, as if expecting her to have magically, since the week before, warmed to people. Each week, as we go through this little routine, I feel like telling her not to bother, but that would be denying Diana her grandmotherly rights, not to mention make me one of those crazy daughters-in-law, the ones that make everyone get a whooping cough shot before they can hold the baby. And so I let her hold Harriet. I’ve learned to play the game.

I have just managed to get Harriet latched on when I hear Archie’s approaching giggle. My heart sinks. Already? I had grand plans for this afternoon but in an hour and a half all I’ve managed to do is fold a tiny pile of washing (I haven’t even put it away) and watch Jon Snow and Ramsay Bolton battle it out in the ‘Battle of the Bastards’. Now, Archie bursts through the door, clutching a fistful of lollies. I pick up the controller and pauseGame of Thrones. Archie runs around the room in a maniacal circle, pumped up on sugar.

‘Archie!’ I shout as he tracks a muddy boot right across my pile of folded laundry. My breast comes out of Harriet’s mouth with a painful pinch. ‘Shit!’

‘Shiiiiiit!’ Archie says.

Diana appears behind Archie, looking appalled. She surveys the room and immediately holds out her hands for Harriet, who starts inhaling a nice deep breath. I hand Harriet over and look at my ruined pile of laundry, the grand sum of my day’s achievements. In true hormonal style, I find myself holding back tears.

‘Archie, look what you’ve done, mate!’

I don’t scream it. There’s the ‘mate’ I add at the end, for good measure. But Archie, of course, decides to burst into tears.

Diana squats down, transferring a wailing Harriet to the opposite shoulder as if that will make a difference, and tries to comfort Archie.

‘That folding is all I managed to do while you were gone!’ I explain. ‘Other than try to feed Harriet, where my efforts were just as pathetic.’

Diana glances at the television where a picture of Jon Snow is frozen on the screen, then back at me pointedly. ‘Maybe you could try multitasking. When Ollie was a baby, I used to unload the groceries, vacuum the house and pay the bills while feeding him.’

Obviously Diana is lying. She never unloaded the groceries, vacuumed the house and paid the bills while feeding Ollie. It’s physically impossible. I know because I’m well versed—not to mentionrecentlywell versed—in breastfeeding. But it doesn’t matter what I know because mothers-in-law are allowed to say things that aren’t true. Whether they’re lying or misremembering is entirely beside the point:

‘Richard took his first steps at three months old.’

‘Susie never cried.Never!’

‘I started feeding Judy solids while she was still in the hospital.’

‘I washed all of Trevor’s clothes by hand in home-made laundry powder.’

‘Philip loved vegetables.Lovedthem. He devoured everything I ever served him. Brussels sprouts were his favourite!’

Daughters-in-lawknowtheir mothers-in-law are lying, but it doesn’t matter a jot, because how does one prove itisn’ttrue? More importantly, how does one prove something isn’t truewhilst trying to be polite to their mother-in-law? It is as impossible as breastfeeding an infant while unloading the groceries, vacuuming the floor and paying the bills. And so, mothers-in-law get to say whatever outlandish statements they like about motherhood. Mothers-in-lawwin, every time.

‘You could put Harriet down for a minute or two and do some laundry,’ Diana is saying. ‘Throw both kids in the pram and take them to the grocery store. Put a puzzle down for Archie and pop Harriet in the bouncy chair while you cook dinner. You shouldn’t need to be sitting in that chair around the clock when she’s three months old.’

It takes me a moment to collect myself. I should be clear, I don’t have postnatal depression or anxiety or any postnatal mood disorder to speak of. I know people who have suffered. My cousin Sophie confessed to me once that she felt indifferent to her daughter Jemima. She felt hopeless about her role as a mother and would have done anything to turn back the clock and not have had the baby. My friend Rachel reported being trapped in a world of exhausted insomnia for months after having Remy, where she would lie in bed, her mind locked in an OCD cycle ofIf you don’t move your right leg right now, Remy will be dead in the morning. I, on the other hand, am mentally well. I adore my children. Apart from the (I am told, totally normal) hormonal moments when I decide my baby (or husband) is the devil incarnate, I am very fond of my life. I enjoy being an at-home mum. I even like my teeny tiny workers cottage with the unrenovated kitchen.

What I don’t like is being told what to do by my mother-in-law in my own home.

‘Thank you for that advice, Diana,’ I say finally. ‘That is . . . incredibly helpful. I can’t wait to try your suggestions.’