My mother-in-law waits until my husband, Piotr, is in the kitchen making tea before she launches her attack. She edges towards me, pinning me into the corner of the sofa. My newly minted son, Louis, is in her arms, sleeping for a change.
“He looks cold,” she says in her lilting Polish accent. “Does he have sweater?”
“He’s fine.” I don’t want to wake him just to put another layer on.
“But you wear long sleeves and him only short.”
“All his brown fat’s keeping him warm,” I say, but she’s not listening, gazing at him with an entranced expression.
“He smells gorgeous. Brand new.” She bends for a long inhale of his head, like she’s taking a drag on the world’s most delicious cigarette. The whole house smells like curdled milk and baby shit, but I don’t argue. You’re meant to love your baby’s scent, aren’t you?
She looks up at me and her eyes narrow. “He has rash, here on his arm. You should take him to doctor.” I shrug; it’s only a few tiny red spots, but before I have chance to say anything she’s talking again. “In Poland, every baby gets assigned paediatrician, at birth.”
If it’s so great there why don’t you go back? I feel like asking. Obviously I don’t. That’d be rude. Louis shifts in her grasp, smacks his lips together. His eyelids flicker, but stay mercifully closed.
“He’s so small. How much do you feed him?” she asks.
As much as possible, but still not enough. Is there any milk coming out of my useless boobs? He can suck for what feels like hours, but afterwards he cries until I give him a bottle.
“Breastfeeding is hard, yes, but keep at it. Six months, minimum,” she says.
“I’m trying,” I reply, not wanting to go into details about the specialists we’ve seen, one of whom remarked on the size of my nipple just as I was trying to shove it into Louis’ mouth, while he twisted and screamed like I was hell bent on murder.
“You should. Like I did. Look how Piotr turned out.” My husband’s six foot three, in case I need reminding. I get it. I failed at giving birth, my baby yanked out of me with a pair of tongs. Now I’m failing at breastfeeding. I’m a shit mother. Might as well hang a sign around my neck.
She creeps even closer, her eyes boring into me, her knee pressing against mine. I can’t bear the weight of her touch and try to wriggle back, but there’s nowhere to go.
Then she looks away, gesturing at the bag for life at her feet, its contents spilling over: clothes, toys, medicines, books about childrearing practices. I don’t know when she thinks I’ll have time to read them.
“When you’re feeding him, you look uncomfortable.”
Of course I do; it’s like trying to parallel park with someone watching.
“It’s probably because you don’t have right bra. You must look after your breasts.” Her free hand, the one not holding my son, grabs her own tit and I flinch, hoping she’s not about to try the same thing on me. “I bought you breastfeeding bras. You didn’t reply to my message so I guessed your size.”
The thought of my mother-in-law scrutinising my body fills me with horror, but before I can think of a reply my husband appears, carrying three mugs of tea. He puts them on the coffee table next to plates piled high with Polish snacks: pickled mushrooms and gherkins, stick-thin salty-sweet crackers, and cloying chocolate-covered plums. Why can’t she bring something normal, like biscuits?
She sits back, giving me some space at last, and looks between Louis and her son, beaming.
“I remember when you used to be like this,” she says to my husband. “Such a sweet boy. Before you became cynical.” Her wrinkled mouth puckers and my big, strapping husband shrinks, giving me a glimpse of the awkward lad he used to be. He doesn’t say anything; he never does. Just sits in the armchair opposite and stoically chews through the mountain of food while I try to keep up with his mother’s anecdotes about various relatives, longing to close my eyes and sleep.
When she leaves I finally exhale, and Louis chooses that moment to wake up. Bloody typical.
Later she emails saying I seemed down during her visit, with advice attached about the “baby blues.”
“Why can’t she leave me alone?” I ask Piotr as we try to eat dinner in between attending to Louis, who’s fussing in his Moses basket. “Just ignore her, like I do,” he says with a shrug.
“But how?” I envy the way her words wash over him, like he’s switched himself off entirely.
“Decades of practice,” he replies, his tone dark. He doesn’t like to talk about the years he was left in Poland with his grandparents while his mother came to London, preparing the way for their new life. He’s closing off from me now; I can tell by the set of his jaw, the way his eyes slide away from mine.
I try to think of something to say to draw him out, but Louis’ cries have become increasingly fractious. I drop my fork with a clatter and crouch beside the Moses basket, crooning.
Later, in bed, I bring up the subject again. “D’you think you could tell your mum to stop with the advice?”
“Leave it, will you? I need to sleep.” He turns away, his broad back a brick wall.
I lie there stiffly, exhausted but too agitated to drift off. Next to me, Louis snores and gurgles in his basket; Piotr soon starts snuffling too. I should be making the most of it——sleep while your baby sleeps, everyone says——but I’m wide awake.
The next day the bombardment starts, grenades sent under the guise of friendly texts. What washing detergent are we using? Are we testing the temperature of baby’s bath water? We mustn’t forget to support his head properly when we pick him up. We should put a mobile above his bed for stimulation. How much are we reading to him?
I don’t reply; I hardly have time to eat or shower.
About a week later, as he’s leaving for work, Piotr says almost as an afterthought: “Mum’s coming round today. Says she’s bought us something.”
Louis grizzles all morning. I’m covered in baby puke and trying to feed him when the doorbell rings. My mother-in-law stands on the front step with a box almost as big as she is. On the front is a baby sitting in a colourful plastic contraption adorned with jungle animals.
“It’s for jumping,” she says, grinning.
Behind me, Louis struggles to lift his legs. He’s a long way off jumping. I wrangle the box into the hallway, wondering how this thing will fit with our mid-Century minimalist aesthetic, or what’s left of it since the baby’s invasion.
I mumble my thanks. Would it be rude to send it straight to the charity shop?
“It was expensive, but you can use it again for next one.” She steps inside, sending a pointed look towards my slack belly.
I blink. I can still feel the stitches in my labia and she’s already talking about another baby. Why, when she clearly thinks we’re doing a terrible job with this one?
My plan, to float above her barrage, goes out of the window and I snap: “That’s not happening.” Then I try to rescue myself with a laugh and a half-hearted wave at my mess of a body.
She barely seems to notice. “The boy needs a brother or sister.”
Is that why you only had one? I want to say but bite my tongue, fanning myself. I turned the heating up to tropical levels earlier, to stop her complaining about Louis’ feet being cold. Now sweat is pooling under my arms.
“Shall we go for a walk?” she asks. “It’s a beautiful day. Far too stuffy in here.”
My temples start to throb. I can’t win. I count to ten, keeping my breaths long and even.
She gives me a look, like I’m the one being weird. “Where are his warm clothes? It’s still quite nippy outside.”
I surrender, figuring it’s easier just to let her take over. Whatever I do will be wrong so there’s no point even trying.
Half an hour and several layers later——for Louis, not me——we’re walking towards the park, the buggy rattling along the uneven paving slabs. My mother-in-law pushes, but I cling onto the handle too. Shut up inside I hadn’t noticed, but the sun’s shining for the first time in what feels like months. In the park, daffodils and crocuses are blooming, birds are trilling, and everything smells fresh and green. We gather speed along the concrete paths, slaloming around tree roots, avoiding dog walkers. I inhale, trying to regain my positive attitude. I am calm and serene, and nothing will faze me.
“I heard you’ve been looking at nurseries,” she says.
I stiffen, sure she has an opinion on this. “Yes, you have to get on the waiting list early.”
“You go back to work full time?”
“Not for another nine months.” Despite my best efforts, my shoulders tense as I await the advice-bomb that’s surely coming.
She pauses. Takes aim. Fires. “You’ll regret it. Working all the hours when your son needs you.”
Her missile finds its target, exploding in my chest and setting off an aftershock that threatens to overwhelm me. I look at Louis gurgling in his bassinet, delighted by everything, and feel a surge of guilt.
“I need to go back to work. The money…” It’s only partly true. Honestly, I want to go back. Being with a baby all day, every day, is already rotting my brain.
“Pah! Money isn’t everything.”
That’s easy for her to say, now. I’m sure it was different when she first arrived in London and was holding down two jobs. I snatch the buggy away from her, my clammy palms sliding on its handle.
“What about part time? Or job share?” She starts explaining the ins and outs of the job-sharing process, like I’ve never heard of this concept before. I wonder if she’s had the same conversation with my husband; somehow I doubt it.
My heart pounds as I speed ahead, trying to get away, but her words chase me down the path, their sing-song patter like the rat-at-at of machine gun fire.
She catches up, laughing, short of breath. “It’s good to have exercise; you need to lose baby weight.” Then she turns serious. “I don’t want you to regret. Like I do.”
I stop. Realisation dawns. This is about her, not me. It always has been.
I want to ask what else she regrets. The years she missed with her son? The distance that’s been between them ever since? The way he never listens to her, despite her frantic attempts to get his attention?
I want to tell her that going back to work was the least of her worries.
But I don’t say anything. It’s not my place. She’s not my mother.
Instead I look up at the brilliant blue sky, then down at my son wriggling against the blankets she tucked too tightly around him. I console myself with the fact that, whatever I do, I can’t fuck things up as spectacularly as she did.
I make my smile a shield as the breeze blows into my face, cool and refreshing. It really is a beautiful day.
Madeleine Armstrong is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Bunker Squirrel, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Micromance, Mythic Picnic, Punk Noir, Temple in a City, Trash Cat, Underbelly, Urban Pigs and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in London with her husband, son, and two cats. Her favourite revenge film is Oldboy.
