The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1099 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I’ve discovered another disadvantage to this breast feeding lark–unless, I wear a wet suit, we both get covered in sticky fluid when making love. Not a lot, but enough to make a shower necessary before going to sleep–which meant drying my hair and combing it and by which time, tiny wee was awake again and looking for a pre-breakfast snack.

Simon of course went to bed and was asleep quite quickly whilst I sat there nodding off as the baby emptied my flotation tanks. In the end I wrapped a towel around her in case I did drop off, so she wouldn’t fall.

I did nod for a few moments and her chewing my nipple woke me–I think she wanted the other one or a bacon sandwich–anyway, she got the former. She fell asleep on my breast, so did I. We woke with quite a start when Simon, woken by the light still on, came to see why I was sitting in the chair rather than sleeping.

I changed the baby’s nappy and put her down to sleep–it was nearly three o’clock and I had no idea how long I’d sat there. I pulled on my nursing passion killer with its pads and almost fell into bed, drifting off almost as soon as my head touched the pillow, ignoring Simon’s request for a top up.

The next day, it didn’t rain, so we all went for a walk–except Julie, who was waiting for Leon to arrive–waiting in bed, so I told her in no uncertain terms she needed to get up and dressed. In response, she pulled the duvet over her head. So I locked both back and front doors and took the keys with me. Knowing Leon, he’d get on with some gardening when he arrived.

In the end we met him as he was riding to the house and Tom gave him instructions on what he wanted done. Danny decided he’d go back with Leon, I guessed he needed some male bonding, so I let him go. He’d also act as a gooseberry to the young lovers.

We were out for an hour or so, enjoying the sunshine if not the cool breeze, Simon pushing the pram like a proud father and me holding hands with as many of my kids as I could. They’d change over every so often, so Trish would hold one hand and Livvie my other, and Mima would hold her hand and Billie would hang on to Trish. Then ten minutes later, they’d all swap round and someone would push Puddin’ and another would hold Stella’s hand. The only one who wouldn’t change was Simon, he was hanging on to the pram for grim death.

When I asked him later, I knew the answer was really, that this was the closest thing we’d ever have to our own baby, but his answer in typical flippant schoolboy style was, “I have to protect the owner of the milkshake factory.”

“That’s me,” I scolded.

“No, that’s her,” he pointed to the pram, “you are the factory.”

“Oh great, I love it when men objectify women.”

“Don’t go all feminist on me.”

“Oh, I see, it’s okay for you to go all macho male chauvinist but not for me to defend myself.”

“Me, male chauvinist? Is that what you think? Here take your bloody baby.” With that he turned on his heel abandoning the pram and Trish and Livvie squabbled over who was going to push it. I simply stood there with eyes filling with tears–not sure if I was hurt or angry.

“Don’t cwy, Mummy,” said Mima, holding my hand and Puddin’s pram with the other. I smiled at her and nodded, although a tear did escape and run down my face to drop onto the pavement.

Stella and Simon were fifty yards down the road and she was letting rip at him. We walked on slowly and Tom put his arm round me, “Storm in a teacup,” he said and we walked on.

It was always stupid little things we fought about, though rarely in front of the kids. I was as guilty of starting them as he was. So when he came back, marched back by his ‘prefect’ sister, I apologised before he could say anything.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m just a bit tired and tetchy this morning, so I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

“As much my fault–you know I don’t think of you as a sex object–you’re a wonderful person, and I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I kissed him and all the kids cheered, talk about embarrassing.

A bit later we bumped into an old lady, “Lovely mornin’,” she observed.

“Yes, just right for a walk,” I replied.

“You doin’ the Sunday School walk?” she enquired.

It took a moment for me to understand what she said. “Oh no, these are all mine,” I smiled.

She looked horrified, “You need to learn to say no to him,” she advised and bustled on.

I smirked and Trish pulled on my sleeve and asked, “What did she mean, Mummy?”

“I think she thought I had enough children.”

“Oh a girl can’t have too many children, Mummy.”

“We’re not talking about shoes, Trish. Children are a responsibility, they take time and effort, not to mention money.”

“But we’re worth it,” she sighed.

I hugged her and agreed. Then of course I had to hug Mima, who then went back to holding Simon’s hand–he was walking with Tom and hadn’t heard my conversation with the old lady.

We walked in a big circle coming back to the house via the cemetery, where Tom laid some flowers on his wife and daughter’s grave. We all stood back while he did this, then he picked up the baby and carried her to the grave.

“What’s he doing?” asked Livvie.

“He’s telling his wife and daughter about his latest granddaughter.”

“Oh–but they’re...”

“Yes, it helps him cope with his loss to tell them anyway and it harms no one does it?”

“No, I s’pose not,” Livvie accepted.

Simon put his arm around Livvie’s shoulder and began to walk away, “Some people believe they can talk to their dead loved ones, and who are we to say they can’t? As Mummy said, it does no harm and perhaps makes him feel better.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she answered before they’d gone out of earshot.

“They think she’s bonny,” Tom handed me back my bundle of joy. “They also think it’s lovely that ye can breast her.”

Trish gave me a funny look as she stood holding the pram waiting for the return of its occupant–it was her turn to chauffer her sister about. My expression back to her meant not to say anything and she shrugged.

“I think so too, Daddy and I’m glad they approve.”

“Och, they do that alricht, ye ken–but then they think thae wurrld o’ma dochter an’ a’ her bairns.”

I linked arms with him as we walked away from the graves, “You’re a wonderful man, Tom Agnew.”

“Aye, sae Celia used tae say–ye’ve no’ bin talkin’ wi’ her?”

We both laughed and walked on with a bemused Trish pushing the pram in front of us.