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Authors: Emma Donoghue
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not? She looked around to see if there was a smoking section, but apparently not; she decided it wasn’t worth standing outside in the driving snow.
Una discussed her mental state as if it was a not-particularly-interesting ongoing war in a country she couldn’t spell. ‘Not
depression,
I wouldn’t call it that, Mum; I’ve only got three of the eight symptoms in the books.’
That was something else Rose found strange: It was all books nowadays; young mothers didn’t so much as wipe a bottom without consulting the authorities (‘Front to back for girl babies,’ Una had corrected her this morning).
‘Some women I’ve talked to at La Leche meetings, they say the baby blues are so normal’ – Una broke off to yawn – ‘It’s probably hormones, or the shock of giving birth. Like, I remember, the day we came home from the hospital, I was convinced Moya would never be safe in the outside world; I had this craving to put her back in.’
Rose had a simpler explanation. ‘Wouldn’t anyone lose their marbles from this kind of sleep deprivation? Sure that’s how they torture prisoners!’
Una smiled faintly.
‘If I could just buy you one good night’s sleep! I really don’t – I’ve been casting my mind back thirty years,’ Rose said, her forehead wrinkled, ‘but I really can’t remember having such a hard time with you or Donal.’ Of course, their father had given them a bottle at three in the morning, that helped, and because they were in their own room she hadn’t been roused by every little peep out of them. ‘You were both awfully good …’
She’d forgotten: That was one of the forbidden terms. ‘They’re not good or bad, Mum,’ Una repeated. ‘They’re just babies with needs.’
Rose decided to be frank. ‘But it’s ridiculous for Moya to be carrying on like this, at the two-month mark. She’s preying on your feelings, I’m afraid; you cuddle her so constantly in that sling thing, she’s spoiled rotten—’
Damn,
that was another of the words.
‘There’s no such thing as
spoiling
a two-month-old,’ her daughter said tightly. ‘The current scientific consensus—’
‘Oh, I’m not saying there’s any badness in her,’ Rose interrupted. ‘I just mean she’s got into dangerous habits.’
Una’s stare was cold. ‘Babies worn in slings for three hours a day cry less and thrive better, it says so in all the books.’
Moya let out a high-pitched wail; Una switched her to the other breast. Rose bit her lip and suggested they have a couple of those lovely looking muffins. By the time she came back with the plate, Una’s cheeks were striped with tears again.
Rose found, over the next few days, that every conversation with her daughter ran straight into a wall. The present generation seemed hedged in by rules, miserably committed to something known as ‘attachment parenting’. (In her day, Rose would have liked to say, they’d just got on with it, watched a lot of telly, and had a laugh when they could.) Everything she suggested had already been judged impossible. No, Una couldn’t pump milk for Silas to give the baby at night, because she felt she only barely had enough as it was, and if she skipped a feed she might jeopardize her supply. Sorry, Una wasn’t willing to leave Moya with a babysitter so she could have a proper slap-up lunch out with her mother. No, she didn’t see how it would help to try to make the baby sleep in her own room.
As for the little bits of folk wisdom Rose couldn’t help offering when she saw her sunken-eyed daughter leap up again – ‘Give her a bottle of water instead, surely she can’t still be hungry,’ or ‘Why wouldn’t you let her grizzle for five minutes, see if she’ll drop off back to sleep’ – these were received as if she’d proposed sticking the infant’s foot in a broken beer bottle. The briefest suggestion of giving Moya some kind of sedative to let Una catch up on some sleep sent Una off on a five-minute rant
Una discussed her mental state as if it was a not-particularly-interesting ongoing war in a country she couldn’t spell. ‘Not
depression,
I wouldn’t call it that, Mum; I’ve only got three of the eight symptoms in the books.’
That was something else Rose found strange: It was all books nowadays; young mothers didn’t so much as wipe a bottom without consulting the authorities (‘Front to back for girl babies,’ Una had corrected her this morning).
‘Some women I’ve talked to at La Leche meetings, they say the baby blues are so normal’ – Una broke off to yawn – ‘It’s probably hormones, or the shock of giving birth. Like, I remember, the day we came home from the hospital, I was convinced Moya would never be safe in the outside world; I had this craving to put her back in.’
Rose had a simpler explanation. ‘Wouldn’t anyone lose their marbles from this kind of sleep deprivation? Sure that’s how they torture prisoners!’
Una smiled faintly.
‘If I could just buy you one good night’s sleep! I really don’t – I’ve been casting my mind back thirty years,’ Rose said, her forehead wrinkled, ‘but I really can’t remember having such a hard time with you or Donal.’ Of course, their father had given them a bottle at three in the morning, that helped, and because they were in their own room she hadn’t been roused by every little peep out of them. ‘You were both awfully good …’
She’d forgotten: That was one of the forbidden terms. ‘They’re not good or bad, Mum,’ Una repeated. ‘They’re just babies with needs.’
Rose decided to be frank. ‘But it’s ridiculous for Moya to be carrying on like this, at the two-month mark. She’s preying on your feelings, I’m afraid; you cuddle her so constantly in that sling thing, she’s spoiled rotten—’
Damn,
that was another of the words.
‘There’s no such thing as
spoiling
a two-month-old,’ her daughter said tightly. ‘The current scientific consensus—’
‘Oh, I’m not saying there’s any badness in her,’ Rose interrupted. ‘I just mean she’s got into dangerous habits.’
Una’s stare was cold. ‘Babies worn in slings for three hours a day cry less and thrive better, it says so in all the books.’
Moya let out a high-pitched wail; Una switched her to the other breast. Rose bit her lip and suggested they have a couple of those lovely looking muffins. By the time she came back with the plate, Una’s cheeks were striped with tears again.
Rose found, over the next few days, that every conversation with her daughter ran straight into a wall. The present generation seemed hedged in by rules, miserably committed to something known as ‘attachment parenting’. (In her day, Rose would have liked to say, they’d just got on with it, watched a lot of telly, and had a laugh when they could.) Everything she suggested had already been judged impossible. No, Una couldn’t pump milk for Silas to give the baby at night, because she felt she only barely had enough as it was, and if she skipped a feed she might jeopardize her supply. Sorry, Una wasn’t willing to leave Moya with a babysitter so she could have a proper slap-up lunch out with her mother. No, she didn’t see how it would help to try to make the baby sleep in her own room.
As for the little bits of folk wisdom Rose couldn’t help offering when she saw her sunken-eyed daughter leap up again – ‘Give her a bottle of water instead, surely she can’t still be hungry,’ or ‘Why wouldn’t you let her grizzle for five minutes, see if she’ll drop off back to sleep’ – these were received as if she’d proposed sticking the infant’s foot in a broken beer bottle. The briefest suggestion of giving Moya some kind of sedative to let Una catch up on some sleep sent Una off on a five-minute rant
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