Quick Change

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Squinting in the hushed half-light of the hospital night-time, Judith rolled from her back on to her side, the lightness of her abdomen still a novelty. After months of feeling heavy, the absence of the baby curled up inside her would take some getting used to.

Not that the baby was far away. There it was, beside Judith’s bed, silently sleeping in a transparent hospital crib. This functional contraption reminded her of a hotel laundry trolley, not at all like the pretty Moses basket awaiting its new occupant at home.

She gazed through the crib’s plastic wall, trying to get used to how her baby looked. Peachy skin, button nose, rosebud lips, sparse blond down across the scalp: all standard baby issue. After nine months of staring at fuzzy monochrome scan images and cross-section diagrams in maternity guides, it was faintly surprising that her baby was in three-dimensional glorious Technicolor.

Her baby. My goodness, it really was her baby.

The baby was also taking time to adjust: eyes tight shut, limbs folded as neatly as Swiss Army Knife attachments, despite no longer needing to pack itself efficiently into the limited space inside Judith. But now the baby was on the outside, a tiny stand-alone human being.

So this is it, thought Judith: the first night of my child’s life, my first night of motherhood, and the start of a relationship that can’t be dissolved by divorce.

She could have done with more time to get used to the idea. On her way to the delivery suite for her Caesarean that morning, she’d suddenly remarked aloud: “I’m not sure I’m ready for this!”

The nurse escorting her had looked almost as alarmed as Judith’s husband. Dave strolled anxiously alongside, clutching the knitted hat they’d been instructed to bring for the baby’s debut. Judith hadn’t realised newborn babies lost so much heat through their heads. There was so much still to learn.

“My dear, would you like to see a counsellor?” the nurse had asked, stopping Judith’s progress with a gentle hand on her arm.

“It’s a bit late now, isn’t it?” Judith had exclaimed. “But don’t worry, I’m not about to have a nervous breakdown. It just feels rather odd to think that when I leave theatre an hour from now, I won’t be pregnant any more. And I’ll have a baby. Giving birth is so final, don’t you think?”

Fifteen hours on, as the ward clock ticked on into the night, Judith felt fraudulent laying claim to a baby. Despite the evidence in front of her, she felt as if she hadn’t given birth at all. Caesareans, she mused, were about as close to natural labour as having your groceries delivered was to shopping in person at the supermarket.

Judith frowned. She was being silly. She wondered whether the drugs had not yet worn off. She had definitely witnessed the birth, albeit with a restricted view. A theatre assistant had erected a small green curtain across her middle, neatly matching the jovial surgeon’s gown. The stage had been set for a dramatic entrance, but the curtains remained closed throughout the performance. For all she knew, Mr Peters could have left the baby inside her, simply tattooing stitches on her abdomen for effect.

Gingerly, Judith slipped one hand down to feel the incision from which Mr Peters had removed the baby as neatly as a letter from an envelope. No, it hadn’t been all smoke and mirrors. She was definitely a mother. And the next day she’d be packed off home to get on with it.

“How am I going to cope?” she whispered, reaching out to touch the soft warmth of the baby’s head for reassurance.

To her astonishment, the baby opened its deep grey eyes and turned them on Judith.

“What do you mean, how will you cope?” returned the baby in a small, high voice. “Haven’t you ever heard of maternal instinct?”

Judith blinked hard twice, as if that might restore the scene to order.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re my mother. You’ll cope. Mothers do. You’ll know how.”

“But I’ve never had a baby before. I’ve never even borrowed one to practise on.”

She faltered, doubts flooding in. The baby fixed her with a knowing stare.

“You want me to give you proof? Then tell me how you feel when you look into my eyes.”

Judith didn’t know what she was going to say until she’d said it.

“I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I never knew I could love anything this much. But don’t tell your father. We don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“Don’t worry. Just keep saying how much I look like him, and he’ll be fine.”

Judith realised she was stroking the baby’s hair in time with her heartbeat. She dared her forefinger to touch the soft patch on the top of its head. So soft, so vulnerable, so small.

With a sudden urge to pick the baby up, she swung her legs round to get out of bed, wincing at the incontrovertible evidence of her stitches. Leaning over the cot to scoop the baby up in her arms, she instinctively put one hand behind its head for support. Till that moment, she’d forgotten that she knew how to do that.

“Do you trust me to look after you, then?” she asked the baby. “Even though I’m new to this game?”

The baby gave a small smile, the sort that grandmas like to say is wind.

“Of course I do, you’re my mother,” said the baby. “We babies have instincts too, you know. You’re my mother and you always will be, no matter how old and big I get.”

“Do you know,” said Judith, pressing the baby’s face gently to hers and nuzzling into its neck, “I think you’re right.”

“Let’s snuggle down and go to sleep now, shall we?”

The baby hiccoughed a little yawn, while Judith continued: “And in the morning, your father will take us both home.”

“I’ll wake you a few times between now and then,” put in the baby,“because that’s what babies have to do.”

“That’s fine,” said Judith. “I understand that now.”

“Of course you do,” said the baby. “Now get some rest. I think you’re going to need it.”

------------------

(If you enjoyed this story, you might like to know it's one of a collection of 20 very short stories included in my flash fiction collection "Quick Change", now available as an ebook on Amazon and shortly to be published in paperback too.)