me and Laura.
My heart skips a beat.
‘You’re having a girl,’ she tells us.
A girl.
Visions flash through my head: Pink ribbons, Barbie dolls, ponies, hair clips, teenage boyfriends with acne, the shotgun I’m going to have to buy to keep said teenage boyfriends on the external side of my daughter’s underwear, make-up boxes, sleep-overs, a fridge full of ice cream, posters of boy bands, the arguments about skirt length, perfume bottles on every bathroom surface… and worst of all, living with two women on their period.
Gah.
A mine field of experience unravels in front of me. Eighteen years of putting up with not one, but two completely insane creatures who I’ll never understand - that will take over my house with soft, frilly things that smell of jasmine and ylang ylang.
All of this sounds dreadful, but for some reason I’m smiling like an absolute goon.
‘A girl,’ Laura says, her eyes filling with tears for what’s probably the fifth time that day. ‘I’m having a little girl.’
‘Yes, you are!’ Marigold bellows. ‘Good for you! Girls are much nicer and don’t start wars that get your village burned to the ground.’
There’s a moment’s silence while we digest this.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s a good reason to have a girl, alright.’
Marigold doesn’t throttle me, so I guess I didn’t say anything that offensive…
The rest of the day’s appointment is the usual question and answer session, with Marigold getting through all the important health matters related to this stage of a pregnancy.
I’ve zoned out to tell the truth. The big news of the day has come and gone and it’s all I can think about.
…more accurately, all I can think about is names.
Now we know it’s a girl, we can get down to the tricky business of slapping an identifier on her.
‘What about Kayla?’ I suggest to Laura in the car on the way home.
‘Kayla? That sounds like it’s skirting dangerously close to Kylie, Newman.’
‘Is it? Doesn’t sound like it to me.’
‘I’m not calling my child Kayla.’
‘Ariadne?’
‘Are you fucking mental?’
‘What about Jacinda? Jacinda’s a nice name.’ Jacinda is in fact a bloody horrible name, but I’m having fun winding Laura up now.
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No I’m not,’ I lie. ‘I think it’s a lovely name.’
‘It sounds like someone who has sex with her horse.’
‘Maybe something a bit more original, then. How about naming her after somewhere nice?’ I fake a look of intense concentration. ‘I know!
Syria
. That’s got a good ring to it.’
There’s every chance Laura will see through my ruse with that one. Even I shouldn’t be dumb enough to suggest naming a baby after a country that’s been bathing in the blood of its own people for the past few years.
‘
Syria
?! You’re seriously suggesting we name our baby Sy - ’ Laura looks like she’s just sucked a lemon. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you?’
I smirk the smirkiest smirk that’s ever been smirked. ‘Of course not, darling.’
‘You, Jamie Newman,’ she says, pointing a finger at me in no uncertain terms, ‘are a baboon’s warty scrotum.’
I can tell when Laura is irate with me, her insults get very creative.
‘Perhaps we should think about the name another time,’ I suggest.
‘Agreed,’ she replies acidly.
I give it just the right amount of silence before saying: ‘Bulimia’s a nice name as well, you know,’ in a cheery voice.
It’s a miracle I make it home in one piece.
Yawn .
I guess at some point I should try to crash out on the couch.
Whether I’ll be able to sleep or not is debatable, though. I can’t get girl’s names and images of tattooed teenage boys with their arms around my equally teenage daughter out of my head.
Going back to bed is certainly out of the question. Sleeping next to Laura is almost impossible at the moment. The baby has reached that stage in her development where she’s able to move
My heart skips a beat.
‘You’re having a girl,’ she tells us.
A girl.
Visions flash through my head: Pink ribbons, Barbie dolls, ponies, hair clips, teenage boyfriends with acne, the shotgun I’m going to have to buy to keep said teenage boyfriends on the external side of my daughter’s underwear, make-up boxes, sleep-overs, a fridge full of ice cream, posters of boy bands, the arguments about skirt length, perfume bottles on every bathroom surface… and worst of all, living with two women on their period.
Gah.
A mine field of experience unravels in front of me. Eighteen years of putting up with not one, but two completely insane creatures who I’ll never understand - that will take over my house with soft, frilly things that smell of jasmine and ylang ylang.
All of this sounds dreadful, but for some reason I’m smiling like an absolute goon.
‘A girl,’ Laura says, her eyes filling with tears for what’s probably the fifth time that day. ‘I’m having a little girl.’
‘Yes, you are!’ Marigold bellows. ‘Good for you! Girls are much nicer and don’t start wars that get your village burned to the ground.’
There’s a moment’s silence while we digest this.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s a good reason to have a girl, alright.’
Marigold doesn’t throttle me, so I guess I didn’t say anything that offensive…
The rest of the day’s appointment is the usual question and answer session, with Marigold getting through all the important health matters related to this stage of a pregnancy.
I’ve zoned out to tell the truth. The big news of the day has come and gone and it’s all I can think about.
…more accurately, all I can think about is names.
Now we know it’s a girl, we can get down to the tricky business of slapping an identifier on her.
‘What about Kayla?’ I suggest to Laura in the car on the way home.
‘Kayla? That sounds like it’s skirting dangerously close to Kylie, Newman.’
‘Is it? Doesn’t sound like it to me.’
‘I’m not calling my child Kayla.’
‘Ariadne?’
‘Are you fucking mental?’
‘What about Jacinda? Jacinda’s a nice name.’ Jacinda is in fact a bloody horrible name, but I’m having fun winding Laura up now.
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No I’m not,’ I lie. ‘I think it’s a lovely name.’
‘It sounds like someone who has sex with her horse.’
‘Maybe something a bit more original, then. How about naming her after somewhere nice?’ I fake a look of intense concentration. ‘I know!
Syria
. That’s got a good ring to it.’
There’s every chance Laura will see through my ruse with that one. Even I shouldn’t be dumb enough to suggest naming a baby after a country that’s been bathing in the blood of its own people for the past few years.
‘
Syria
?! You’re seriously suggesting we name our baby Sy - ’ Laura looks like she’s just sucked a lemon. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you?’
I smirk the smirkiest smirk that’s ever been smirked. ‘Of course not, darling.’
‘You, Jamie Newman,’ she says, pointing a finger at me in no uncertain terms, ‘are a baboon’s warty scrotum.’
I can tell when Laura is irate with me, her insults get very creative.
‘Perhaps we should think about the name another time,’ I suggest.
‘Agreed,’ she replies acidly.
I give it just the right amount of silence before saying: ‘Bulimia’s a nice name as well, you know,’ in a cheery voice.
It’s a miracle I make it home in one piece.
Yawn .
I guess at some point I should try to crash out on the couch.
Whether I’ll be able to sleep or not is debatable, though. I can’t get girl’s names and images of tattooed teenage boys with their arms around my equally teenage daughter out of my head.
Going back to bed is certainly out of the question. Sleeping next to Laura is almost impossible at the moment. The baby has reached that stage in her development where she’s able to move
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