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I can’t stop looking at her. She’s just so... perfect. Usually newborns look like scrunchy blobs. Their cuteness doesn’t come until a few weeks into their life. But this girl... this one is different.
Her tiny hands are laced with green veins and dusted with a sprinkling of dry skin. Her tiny nose has the most discreet of flares. Her heavy eyelids only open briefly to survey her surroundings, revealing eyes that haven’t quite decided what colour they’d like to be. But my favourite thing of all has to be her impossibly dainty feet. I am so enamoured by them that I keep lifting her blanket and unbuttoning her overgrown sleep suit to let them creep out, just for a moment.
“You can keep her, if you like her so much.” Middle sis has lost none of her deadpan nature in childbirth.
“No, you’re alright. I’ll just take the cuddles.” I adjust myself in my seat, shifting higher up over the cushion to dispel the pins and needles running through my arm. I know it’s been 40 minutes since I was first handed this precious cargo but I’m not ready to give her back yet.
Middle sis, despite sporting the look of a woman who has been to war, seems remarkably happy. It’s only a touch of gaunt in the face that suggests her energy has been expended in looking after this tiny human who needs her for everything.
“Actually, hand her back. I need to give her a feed. My boobs are going mental.”
I don’t exactly know what that means, however, judging by her now extra large breasts, I’m guessing she’s got some milk to get rid of.
“A heads up, you’re going to see a lot of boob this afternoon. They become fair game after you’ve had babies,” she tells me after the event, as her left one has already escaped her ugly beige bra.
“I don’t mind,” I say, looking away. “Knock yourself out.”
“I’m hoping to knock her out. The milk drunk days are the easiest. You’ll soon find out.”
This whole motherhood thing is such an alien concept to me. Yet, it feels like I’m compelled to get involved as it’s often a conversation that’s put upon me. I seem to be seeing more babies, hearing about babies, being asked about babies. I’m not sure if the frequency has increased (the questions certainly have), or I’m just more aware of it. It’s as if, by default, entering into this new married phase means I can’t get too comfortable as I need to enter the next stage very soon.
Is that how life is now? Is that how it’s always been? It’s like being in a computer game. There are a series of levels to complete, one after the other, with barely any downloading time in between. In work, no sooner are you promoted to one position, than you’re itching (and encouraged) to go for the next big role. In your personal life you’re set a series of goals. Finish school with good grades. Go to college. Go to university. Get a good job. Meet a good boy and get married. Have babies. After each stage you don’t even get a moment to enjoy your metaphorical shiny new sticker before you’re questioned about when you’re going to chase the next golden star. Why can’t we just enjoy the stage we’re at? Why are we always heading towards the next milestone? Why do we always have to be moving? Why do we always have to be doing? Why can’t we just... be?
The sucking sound is slightly unsavoury. I feel I have to ask something to drown out the noise.
“How was the labour?” As if I really care.
Middle sis looks at me in shock, as it’s something I’ve never taken an interest in before.
“Since you’re married, you might as well know these things. You’ll be going through it one day.”
She shuffles herself as if she’s settling in to tell me a story.
“This time it happened really quickly,” she begins.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is definitely better than having a really long labour. I remember big sis moaning about having to be induced and how long the whole thing was. Trust her to have a slow one. None of mine have been like hers.”
I know sisters can be competitive but I thought labour timings was off-limits.
“But the downside of a quick labour is all the pain that’s meant to be spread out over a few hours, comes at once. So you feel like you’re dying.”
“Oh, shut up!” is all I can think to say.
“No, you need to know this. Basically, it’s all about getting the right midwife. The first one I had didn’t tell me how to breathe properly. She told me about pushing, then stopping but didn’t really explain, so I ended up pushing at the wrong time. Silly cow made me rip my bum.”
“Gross.”
Middle sis shrugs. “You asked. So here’s what to expect. You have to make sure you hold at the right time, like this.”
Middle sis does some kind of weird panting thing, as if she’s re-enacting her labour of just a few days ago. What is wrong with her?
“I didn’t scream much. Some women, they screamed like they were absolutely dying. No dignity. I wasn’t swearing, either. I think I’ve got quite a high pain threshold. But here’s the worst thing.”
Middle sis reels of a shopping list of nastiness. I’m not sure what she is referring to as the worst, as there’s a lot. Stuff that should stay in the confines of the labour ward and never be heard by a childless woman. She talks of plugs (the non-electric sort), dangling mucus, and something about midwives needing to check you can wee after labour because your organs could end up in the wrong place. Given how she’s relishing recounting her experience, you’d think she enjoyed it.
“I’ve heard enough,” I say.
“Oh, but this is the grossest bit. After labour -”
“I really don’t want to know.”
“It’s just one thing. Basically -”
“No, really. I don’t think I need to know. I don’t want to hear it. Sharing isn’t always caring.”
“When you go to the bathroom straight after labour -”
“No. I’m going now.” I get up off the sofa.
“It was a bloodbath.” She ends on the lightest of notes.
Before I leave the room to go into the kitchen, where mum is on all fours bleach-cleaning the tiles, I take a look at that sweet suckling bundle in my nasty, over-sharing sister’s arms. How could a woman go through such physical torture to get one of those? Is it worth it?
“Dooro!” is mum’s response when I tell her of the horrors I’ve just heard. “It not be right for you to know these things! She be so shameless.”
“She think’s she is warning me. Is it really that bad?”
Mum does her upside down lip grimace thing.
“Did you rip your bum?” I ask.
“Dooro!”
“Okay, but labour sounds like death.”
“I had you four girls, no?” says mum. “But, you worry later. Now, take your time and make sure you careful. No rush.”
Say what now? Is mum talking to me about contraception? There doesn’t seem much point telling me five months into my marriage that I should be careful.
“A few people have been telling me I should rush. I’m only 27!”
“28 this year,” mum helpfully adds.
“Okay, 28 this year. There is still time, though. How old were you, when you had little sis? Late thirties?”
“That not your business!” Mum peels off a yellow rubber glove and throws it in the sink. “I don’t know when the last time she clean floor. She lucky her husband no complain. Many men be angry with her lazy way. Anyway, it took me long time to have you and your sister.”
Again, say what now? Did mum just casually throw in that she had trouble conceiving? Is that the reason why there’s such a big age gap between middle sis, little sis and I? I just thought she either hated kids but had little accidents, or she kept having one last try for a boy.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“What?” Mum is oblivious to the bombshell she just dropped.
“That it took you ages to have kids?”
“Dooro! Your husband hear! And you’re brother-in-law!”
“Relax, they’re out playing golf and no doubt bonding over being wed into our odd family. Anyway, why didn’t you tell me?”
There she goes again with the lip grimace thing. “Daughter no need to know everything.”
“Well, this one is pretty important, mum. What if I’m the same? What if it’s not so easy?”
“It was easy for your sisters.” She lowers her voice and focuses on scrubbing the stainless steel sink. “Then everything was easier with them.”
It had been a while since she had a dig at me, so I knew it was coming. Yes, it was easier for them, as I have been reminded in the past. Easier for them to get married as they are prettier and fairer. Easier for them to fall into conversations with people at weddings because they spoke better Bengali. And easier for them to live life because, due to genetics, they were seen as better in our community.
“Anyway,” mum has more. “When I tell you this? You only been married few months. Or did you want to know when you unmarried and worry. I tell you then you maybe no have kids as you getting old? You tell me when I should say!”
“It’s just... everything, mum. You always do this. You always expect me to figure things out. Find out the hard way. It’s like when you didn’t tell me that I’m meant to shave my vag.”
“What is vag?”
I don’t know the Bengali word for it. “You know... front bottom.”
“Dooro! Have shame! I never told any of your sisters this private thing.”
“I know! Mum, you have to tell me these things. Even if you’re dying of embarrassment, there are some things you need to share. We shouldn’t find out the hard way, or when it’s too late.”
Mum comes closer, smelling of disinfectant. “You no worry. You only 26.”
“I’m 27. Nearly 28. You said so yourself.”
Another grimace. “Oh.”
Just as mum is in danger of sporting a permanent upside down mouth, M comes in with middle sis’ hubby. This is the first time they’ve done something without us ladies. I wonder how they got on. My brother-in-law has the gift of chat, plus the kids are at the stage of questioning everything, so I’m guessing M just let it all unravel in front of him.
The tiny children run into the kitchen almost slipping in their socks as they slide across the freshly mopped grey tiles. My nephew, who is usually a man of few words, comes up to me proudly cupping two golf balls.
“Look what I got.” He shows me his mementos - two silver, dimpled balls with smiley faces, which I’m assuming is from the crazy golf kids section.
“Are you supposed to take them?” I ask.
He puts one of them back in his pocket before I can ask any more questions. “Dad said I could,” he mumbles, running and skidding across the floor.
“How was your initiation? Are you put off by screaming children?” I ask M.
“No,” he replies. “They’re no different to my nephew and niece, to be honest with ya. But listen, we should head back before we hit too much Sunday traffic.”
I feel heavy, again. I’m getting used to this pushing and pulling sensation whenever it’s time to leave my family. I’m not sure when it will go away.
“You can’t go yet!” shouts a voice from the living room. “You haven’t held her.”
Middle sis isn’t addressing me, as I’ve been hogging the baby for most of the afternoon.
“Uh-oh! I thought I got away with it!” says M.
“What do you mean?” Now I’m worried. Doesn’t he like babies? Will he want them?
He looks nervous. “I’ve never held a newborn before.”
Phew. That’s a relief. “Well, it’s a good time to start.”
M tentatively steps through the lounge like it’s a landmine, carefully navigating the discarded muslin cloth and the tiny, wee-soaked nappy that never made it to the bin.
He lowers himself into the tan armchair, a safe distance from my sister, who has taken up the centre of the three-seater sofa. He braces himself, like he’s about to go on a rollercoaster.
Middle sis gets up on to her pink, swollen feet, which look two sizes too big after... actually, that’s a point. After what? I never understood why women end with swollen feet. The baby didn’t come out of there. Anyway, she waddles over with the slow, casual coolness of a woman who’s done it before, plonking her third born into the arms of my petrified husband.
“Uh-okay.” M laughs with a mixture of nervousness and relief. “It’s a lot lighter than I thought.”
“She is a lot lighter,” middle sis corrects him.
“Yeah. Sorry. She’s as light as a feather.”
What was he expecting? A sack of rice? He looks up at me and smiles.
We don’t need to say it but we have a silent agreement. We’d like one of our own, one day.
M would undoubtedly make an excellent dad but I don’t think I’m ready to bestow that responsibility on him, or me, just yet.