One gloomy autumn evening, I realised that a son had taken up residence in my belly. I knew straight away it was a son—not, say, a tapeworm—and I took my role very seriously. I fed him vitamins, stuffed myself with calcium, and bravely swallowed cod liver oil. He showed no appreciation for my efforts, and after five months, he’d swollen my belly to the size of a beach ball. And he wouldn’t stop wriggling or hiccuping.
I carried my belly—and him—with pride, accepting congratulations and tangerines, which I ate peel and all, grinning like a madwoman. We listened to Vivaldi in the evenings, hiccuping tragically in time with *The Four Seasons*…
By six months, I caught myself licking a pebble covered in algae that I’d fished out of the fish tank. I didn’t *want* to—but my son was calling the shots. At seven months, I was eating raw buckwheat by the kilo. He was mocking me. By eight months, the only things that fit were my gran’s old dressing gown and a checked overall that made me look like Mrs. Karlsson. He’d grown, and I had no say in the matter.
At nine months, I couldn’t see my own feet anymore. I told the time by the intensity of his hiccups. I ate the algae, raw buckwheat, tangerines with peel, activated charcoal, dry clay meant for face masks, chewed cigarette filters, and banana skins. I didn’t cut my hair because old Marge from downstairs cawed that trimming it would shorten his life. I didn’t raise my arms above my head in case he tangled himself in the umbilical cord. I let no one drink from my cup. I dutifully shoved in pessaries to stop him coming early—though, admittedly, not always in the right place. A few centimetres off—who cared?
I scratched my belly raw, genuinely terrified it might split open.
I bought him a pram, a cot, twenty-two packs of nappies, a baby bath, a bath stand, antiseptic, cotton wool, sterile wipes, ten bottles, a dozen teats, about twenty muslins, three blankets, two mattresses, a playpen, a trike, eight bonnets, piles of babygros, five towels, twenty sleepsuits in various sizes, countless vests, baby shampoo, nappy cream, a wind pipe, a snot sucker, an enema, two hot water bottles, a toothbrush, a musical mobile, two sacks of rattles, and a yellow potty.
I wheeled the potty around the flat in the pram, washed and ironed all twenty muslins, fifteen babygros, and the rest, while my mum quietly rang a psychiatrist.
He was due between the 12th of July and the 3rd of August.
On the 12th, I packed two bags. The first held slippers, shower gel, shampoo, a toothbrush, paper, a pen, tissues, a hairbrush, socks, a hairband, and phone tokens. The second had two muslins, a nappy for a 3kg baby, a vest, a blue bonnet, a blue “sleepsuit” with bunny ears, a lace-trimmed blanket, and an elephant-shaped dummy.
On the 13th, I moved the bags to my room, beside the bed.
On the 14th, I bought a pushchair and transferred the yellow potty into it.
On the 15th, my husband fled to the spare room.
On the 16th, I downed a massive dose of cod liver oil and camped in the loo for two days.
On the 19th, I woke up wanting to cry. I went to the living room, sat under the lamp, pulled out my *Tetris* from the pocket of my enormous dressing gown, and started losing while sniffling.
An hour later, my dad found me. He looked at me, tugged his beard thoughtfully, and left quietly.
Another hour later, an ambulance arrived.
I clung to my husband and howled. He turned pale and missed the chair.
Our son had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, poked me, examined me through practically every orifice, and said he’d be born by midnight. It was 7 PM.
In the lift to the maternity ward, I started crying again. The elderly nurse escorting me solemnly promised not to sleep until midnight and to personally wheel me and my son to the ward. I calmed down.
They left me on a hard bed, bored. My son stayed silent, giving no hint he was ready.
At 8 PM, doctors came in, studied my notes, prodded my belly, and asked:
*”Contractions?”*
*”Weak.”*
*”Waters broken?”*
*”Not yet.”*
*”Induce?”*
*”Wait. Let her do it naturally.”*
*”Cervix?”*
*”Five centimetres.”*
*”So why isn’t she pushing?!”*
They all looked at me.
I hiccuped, embarrassed. Yes, I was here to give birth—but I had no idea why I *wasn’t*! Stop staring!
Another hiccup—then a warm gush between my legs. I shrieked:
*”I’M PUSHING!”*
They checked, praised me, and walked out.
A midwife came in, changed the sheet, and sat beside me:
*”Scared?”*
She smiled, which was funny—her waters hadn’t broken.
*”Terrified.”*
I shivered violently.
*”You’ll be sprinting down the corridor tomorrow.”*
I opened my mouth to reply—then a wave of pain shot down my spine to my knees. My son was *definitely* coming before midnight.
Three hours later, I was drenched in sweat, biting my hands, barely seeing through the haze. Cold fingers pushed hair from my face. With each contraction, I arched like a bow. Someone rolled me sideways, gave me an injection—relief.
At my feet, three student nurses murmured:
*”She’ll tear.”*
*”Nah.”*
*”Bet?”*
*”Won’t.”*
*”Head’s crowning…”*
*”Should we call Helen?”*
*Head?* Already? Where?!
My hands flew toward my belly—but were caught halfway.
*”What are you doing? You’ll infect him!”*
I gasped: *”What colour’s his hair?”*
*”Dark. Hard to see.”*
*”His eyes? Can you see them?”*
Muffled giggles: *”Oh yeah.”*
The doctor arrived, checked, glanced at the clock, then held out a hand.
*”Up. Carefully—don’t sit on his head. Sideways… Good. Now walk… Slowly… Now climb onto the bed. Grab these bars, chin to chest, and PUSH. Harder! Nearly there!”*
I couldn’t see—sweat stung my eyes, hair filled my mouth. My clip was lost. I pushed until my spine cracked.
*”Stop! Don’t push! Head’s out—let his body come naturally. Breathe deep. Don’t push or you’ll tear.”*
*Don’t push.* As if I had a choice. I panted like a steam train.
Then—a wet *slap.*
Like raw liver hitting the floor.
Then—emptiness. Air rushed into my lungs. Something warm, wet, wriggling was placed on my belly. *Moving.*
I reached—tiny, slippery, *alive.*
*MY SON.*
His heartbeat fluttered under my palm.
Hands gently pulled mine away.
*”One more push, love.”*
I obeyed.
A cry.
I turned—the doctor’s eyes crinkled above his mask.
*”Look, Mum—see who’s here?”*
I stared. My lips split in a smile.
*”My little boy…”*
Laughter filled the room.
They laid him on my chest. He crawled toward my breast, whimpering.
I held him, terrified I’d crush him. Tears dripped onto his head. I kissed him, sobbing:
*”My son… My beautiful boy… My sweetheart, my joy… Mine. All mine.”*
The most perfect, beloved thing. *My Alfie.*
The name leapt out. We’d planned *Theo*—but he wasn’t a Theo. He was *Alfie.*
I’d waited for you, son. You’ve got a home—a little cot, a yellow potty, a pram, toys. Your dad, your nan, your grandad. A warm blanket, a nightlight shaped like a bunny. You’ll love it.
The clock struck midnight.
They wheeled me out, handed me a phone.
I whispered into the sterile plastic:
*”Dad… We’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s tiny, perfect, and his name’s Alfie.”*And as I held him close, I knew that no matter what chaos had brought him here, our little Alfie was worth every strange craving, every sleepless night, and every bit of madness that had led us to this moment.
