As every parent and carer knows, one of the key things with babies is that they need to be settled into ‘a routine’. And since ‘routine’ should have been my middle name (with ‘clean-freak’ my first name) this was obviously always going to be my mission, so I spent the next few days and nights determined to establish one. And not just to help Jenna, who would be with us before we knew it, but because it was the only thing standing between me and utter chaos.
Being up at 5 a.m. every morning, as now seemed to be the norm, should, in that respect, have been a bit of a bonus. Early birds, or so the proverb goes, catch the worms, after all. But what I hadn’t factored in, amid all the frantic plate-spinning, was the extent of the mess; that my usually spotless home would now resemble an art installation – and a very specific one, too. The famous one, by the late 1990s Britart sensation Tracey Emin, descriptively titled ‘My Bed’. The bed in question, and the floor around it, being in such a dishevelled state that, even only seeing it reproduced as a photograph, it brought me out in hives. How anyone could ever live like that I didn’t know.
But now I did, because my own bed gave hers a run for its money, there being no time to even make it (well, to my standards, though Mike did his best, bless him), much less go back up at any point and tidy and clean the bedroom, as each day began with Seth yelling from across the landing and screaming for his breakfast, duly waking up Tommy, who also started screaming, and me bundling both of them – both howling, the latter damp – downstairs, and the day going downhill from there.
The sense of impending chaos had, by now, become my norm, and I had to fight, much as I had when a young mother myself, not to give into waves of mess-related near-hysteria. Just the sight of my kitchen worktops – usually clear, bar perhaps the occasional vase of flowers – which had become home to all the usual array of baby paraphernalia. Tins of baby formula, steriliser, bottles, brushes, and various bottom creams all remained out, because what point was there in tidying them away, only to get them out again two hours later?
I had also lost my beloved conservatory. Mike had by now spent a couple of evenings repurposing it for Jenna, stopping up the plug sockets with plastic guards, taking out all the house plants, and removing anything else potentially breakable and/or dangerous. Now, as well as the small rattan sofa, armchair, and coffee table which were already in there, there was a single bed, made up ready, a baby-changing unit that Mike had found in a second-hand shop, a wooden swinging crib, for daytime napping (we’d move the big crib downstairs when Jenna came), a large chest of drawers, and a borrowed television. All of which, though it would mean the rest of us were effectively stopped from using it to get out onto the patio, seemed a logical sacrifice to make.
It had been Mike’s idea. One much more sensible than cramming the little family into the spare bedroom. ‘It makes perfect sense, Case,’ he’d explained, being ever-practical. ‘This way, she’s got plenty of space, she’s downstairs, close to the kitchen, for the night feeds, and can just help herself to the bottles from the fridge. Plus, she can bathe the baby there, play with Seth in there, and have direct access to the garden so he can run off some energy – and best of all, it means that, as far as possible, anyway, we have clean, uncluttered space for the rest of us.’
And so I hoped would be the case once Jenna came to join us. Right now, it was just my designated safe child-containment area. And the TV, in particular, had been a godsend. My virtual childminder at least gave me the impression that I had a routine, even if only short-lived: place Tommy in the wooden swinging crib (another charity shop find), put the TV on, sit Seth in front of it by the coffee table, put out a bowl of cereal and carton of juice, quickly make up a bottle, change the baby, make a large cup of coffee while the bottle cooled down, then sit down and feed Tommy in relative peace.
Like all routines, though, mine wasn’t completely infallible, as I was to find just six short (long) days in.
It was the sort of January morning no one ever wants to wake up to. Dark, for a start – at this time of year, dawn didn’t happen for hours yet – and with squally rain that spat aggressively at the conservatory windows every time a gust of wind happened along. No wonder, then, that, after finishing his bottle, Tommy fell deeply back asleep. There wasn’t much to be up for, after all. And with Seth so engrossed in the cartoon he was watching, I got it into my head that once I’d put Tommy in the swinging crib, I could snatch another ten or fifteen minutes to do a lightning kitchen clean. The kitchen was connected to the conservatory, after all, and with the door open, I could keep looking in on them.
And for the first ten minutes or so, all was peaceful. I kept checking in every minute or so, soap suds up to my elbows, and once I’d cleared the washing-up and worktops (well, as much as I was able), I checked back in to see Seth, now finished with his programme, even reaching out from where he was to rock the crib.
In any other circumstance it would have been a case of grab the mobile and catch a cute snap for his mother, so lovely would the image have been to capture. And as soon as he caught my eye, Seth put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh,’ he then stage-whispered. ‘I’m wocking my baby,’ before turning his attention back to the opening sequence of the next episode of PJ Masks (how many were there?).
It was the first time I’d seen Seth show Tommy any affection, and though I knew there were many more hurdles ahead with this complicated little child, it really warmed my heart. It also made me feel guilty about some of the negative feelings I’d continued to have about Seth. He’d had his world turned upside down, after all.
So I nodded, and stepped away again, grabbing a tea towel to dry my hands, so I could make myself another coffee to take back in with me.
What I should have done, however, was remember my own rule. To never leave Seth and Tommy together unattended. Thankfully, though, I didn’t make myself that second mug of coffee. Some sixth sense kicked in and it kicked very firmly, reminding me that silence (bar cartoon noise) wasn’t always golden. Because when I next popped my head round the door, some thirty seconds later, it was to see something that made me realise that if I had made that coffee, the extra two minutes could have been catastrophic.
Seth was now standing over the crib, the TV apparently forgotten, attempting to shovel spoons of soggy cereal into Tommy’s mouth, while using his other hand to pinch closed his nose.
‘Seth, what on earth are you doing?’ I barked – well, more shrieked – at him, crossing the space in a single stride and pushing both laden spoon and sticky hands away. Tommy’s nose was scarlet, his eyes bulging, his tiny lips stretched, and his little face was a shade of puce I knew all too well. With instinct taking over, I quickly unclipped the restraining straps, and plucked him up so I could tilt his face and torso forwards. It took questing fingers to clear his mouth enough that he could take some precious air in, by which time I was shaking from a jolt of adrenalin the like of which I hadn’t felt in years. Another minute. A minute more and God only knew what might have happened. ‘What were you doing?’ I snapped at Seth again as I placed Tommy face down against my forearm, reassured, if only slightly, by his lusty, indignant crying. ‘He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t you realise? What on earth were you thinking?’
Seth crossed his arms and looked up at me defiantly. ‘I was feeding him.’
But the strange half-smile on his lips went right through me. It was a major wake-up call. I must never leave him alone with the baby, I berated myself. Not even for a second. I would need those proverbial eyes in the back of my head, and so would Jenna, clearly. Which thought, and idea, with its demonic connotations, couldn’t help but go through me as well.
I watched the pair of them like a hawk for the rest of the day, obviously, and by the end of it, when nothing else untoward happened, I calmed down a bit. Perhaps he was just trying to be helpful. And when Tyler returned home from his trip later in the day, Seth was sweetness personified, eager to see the bedroom that had so far been off-limits to him, and marvelling that Tyler had not one but two computer monitors (modern life, eh?), and full of questions about the games he liked to play.
In other circumstances I’d have looked upon it all as a positive. Perhaps a natural bond would form between them – Tyler was always good with little ones – and it would help with the inevitable shift in dynamic once his mum was installed and things changed once again. But I couldn’t get Seth’s expression out of my mind, even when I was gifted another cuddle when I put him to bed. In fact, I was wondering – was this four-year-old playing me?
‘I think we need to give him the benefit of the doubt, love,’ was Mike’s considered opinion when I shared my feeling with him over tea. It was just the two of us and Tommy, currently sleeping in his baby seat on the floor beside me, as, having returned, Tyler was getting ready to go out again. Some sort of end-of-trip get-together at the local pub.
‘I keep thinking that,’ I said, ‘but just the expression on his face … you’d have to see it to understand, I suppose, but it really got to me.’
‘But he’s four. Can kids of four even have murderous intentions?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t think so. But he just seemed so malevolent.’
‘Which toddlers can. Remember Kieron with that hammer-the-coloured-balls-into-the-holes thing he had? He could wield that thing like bloody Thor when he didn’t get his way.’
Mike was right. I’d even had to take him out of play group on one occasion – him screaming blue murder and my face as red as the weal on the unfortunate friend’s head. But this felt different. And, at four, Seth was no longer a toddler. And he hadn’t been lashing out. He’d been calmly pinching his little brother’s nose in such a way that it made it impossible for him to breathe.
And I was just about to point that out when we heard the doorbell.
‘I’ll get it,’ I said, expecting Tyler’s friend Denver. He’d just passed his driving test and was now the proud owner of an elderly blue hatchback. Which development seemed nigh-on impossible. It seemed like only ten minutes since he and Tyler were ten. How was it that life seemed to whoosh by so fast?
I was about to get another wake-up call in that regard, too. Because I opened the door not to Denver, but a pretty young female. Skinny jeans, suede jacket, black polo-neck, glossy bob.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling shyly. ‘I’m Naomi. Here for Tyler?’ Then glanced back, to where Denver’s car was, indeed, parked, across the road.
‘Hi,’ I began. ‘He’s –’
‘Coming!’ he finished for me, as he clattered down the stairs, grabbing his own jacket from the newel post as he did so, without breaking stride, as if appearing in a scene in a sit-com. The air was thick with aftershave. I looked from one to the other. I wasn’t sure which of them was blushing more profusely.
I know that kind of blush, I thought. That’s a very specific kind of blush. ‘Casey,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Same!’ the girl trilled. And was, I think, about to say more, were it not for the fact that she was already being ushered back off the doorstep by my son.
‘Gotta go. Don’t wait up, Mum, okay?’ Tyler ordered, glancing back, briefly and self-consciously, as he bundled her down the front path.
‘No danger of that!’ I said, but they were already out of earshot.
I went back into the dining room, where Mike was just clearing the plates, all thoughts of Seth now buried beneath another.
‘Hmm. I suspect we have a girlfriend,’ I announced.