One chilly autumn evening, I realised there was a boy growing inside me. I just knew—not some parasite, no, definitely a boy. From that moment, I took my job seriously: pumping myself full of vitamins, calcium, and bravely downing cod liver oil.
He didn’t seem to appreciate my efforts. Five months in, my belly swelled to the size of a beach ball, and he never stopped wriggling or hiccuping. I carried him around like a trophy, accepting congratulations and tangerines—which I ate peel and all, with a prim little smile. Evenings were spent listening to Vivaldi, hiccuping tragically along to *The Four Seasons*.
At six months, I caught myself licking a pebble covered in algae from the fish tank—no choice, really. The boy was calling the shots. By seven months, I was shovelling dry porridge oats by the kilo. He was mocking me at this point. Eight months in, my only options were Gran’s old dressing gown or a checkered onesie that made me look like Mrs. Claus’s odd cousin. He’d taken over completely.
Nine months in, my feet disappeared. I gauged the time of day by his hiccups. My diet? Algae, raw oats, tangerine peels, charcoal pills, clay face masks, cigarette filters, and banana skins. I stopped cutting my hair after Doris from downstairs squawked that scissors would shorten his life. I kept my arms down so he wouldn’t tangle in the umbilical cord. No one drank from my cup. I shoved in *all* the pessaries—even if I missed by an inch or two—just to keep him safely inside.
I scratched my belly raw, convinced it might split. Then came the shopping spree: pram, cot, nappies, a bath, lotions, babygros, mittens, blankets, bibs, bonnets, a musical mobile, rattles, and a bright yellow potty. I wheeled the potty around the flat, washed and ironed every scrap of fabric twice, while Mum quietly phoned a psychiatrist.
His due date was between 12th and 30th July. On the 12th, I packed two bags—one with slippers, shower gel, a toothbrush, notepaper, and phone coins; the other with babygros, booties, a blue bonnet, and a plush elephant dummy. By the 13th, both bags sat by the bed. On the 14th, I bought a stroller and moved the potty into it. On the 15th, my husband fled to the spare room. On the 16th, I overdosed on cod liver oil and camped in the loo for two days.
The 19th arrived, and I woke up weepy. I curled under the lamp in the living room, sniffling over *Tetris* on my phone. Dad found me an hour later, tugged his beard thoughtfully, and left. Another hour passed—then the ambulance showed up. I wailed, clinging to my husband, who went pale and missed his chair entirely. The boy had decided it was time.
At the hospital, they weighed me, poked, prodded, and announced he’d be here by midnight. It was 7 PM. In the lift, I burst into tears. The old nurse escorting me promised solemnly she’d stay awake to deliver us to the ward herself. That helped.
They left me on a hard cot, bored. The boy inside was silent, in no rush. The clock ticked to 8 PM. Doctors bustled in, scanned my chart, palpated my belly. “Contractions?” “Weak.” “Waters?” “Not yet.” “Cervix?” “Five centimetres.” “Why isn’t she pushing?!” They all stared. I hiccuped, mortified.
Then—warm wetness beneath me. I shrieked, “I’M PUSHING!” They patted my belly approvingly and left. A midwife sat down, smirking. “Scared?” “Terrified,” I admitted, just as violent shivers wracked me. “You’ll be sprinting down the corridor by tomorrow,” she teased.
Three hours later, sweat-soaked, I bit my hands through waves of pain. Cold fingers brushed hair from my face. Someone rolled me sideways, jabbed my hip—relief. At my feet, student nurses murmured: “She’ll tear.” “Nah.” “Bet?” “Head’s crowning… call Elena Anatolyevna.”
Crowning?! I lunged to feel, but hands swatted me away. “You’ll infect him!” Gasping, I demanded, “What colour’s his hair?” “Dark. Hard to see.” “Eyes? Can you see them?” A stifled giggle. “Yep. Very clearly.”
The doctor arrived, checked, then hoisted me up. “Careful—don’t sit on his head. Now, grab the bars, chin down, and PUSH.” Vision blurred, sweat stinging, I pushed till my spine creaked. “Stop! Head’s out—just breathe now or you’ll tear.”
A wet, slippery weight thumped onto my belly. It *moved*. My hands flew to cup tiny, frog-like limbs—*my son*. Someone lifted him away. “One more push, love.”
A wail filled the room. The doctor’s crinkled eyes appeared above me. “Meet your boy, Mum.”
I whispered, “*My boy*,” as they laid him on my chest. He squirmed toward my breast, whimpering. Tears splashed his downy head. “My son… my sweet boy… my Andie.” The name came out of nowhere. We’d planned on Nate, but—*look* at him. He was *Andie*.
At midnight sharp, they wheeled me out. A nurse handed me the phone. I pressed the cold receiver to my ear and whispered, “Dad… We’ve had a son for half an hour. He’s perfect. His name’s Andie. We were wrong—he’s not Nate. He’s ours.”
