”I,” He says suddenly, ”Would like to have a baby.”
I finish cutting my schnitzel and look at it as though it were very interesting. I can see where he has left it in the pan too long and the bread crumbs have burnt a little and also where it has touched the mashed potato on my plate.”A baby.” I say after I have scraped off the mashed potato.
”A baby.” He says.Babies are very good in theory. They teach you to be loving and caring and good at holding things without dropping them and they also teach you how to cry and be stressed and have leaky breasts at night. Babies, I have been told, are especially good at teaching you these last three points. I am very good, I decide, at two of these things already.
Babies are warm and cuddly and small and I have been told that when they do not smell like vomit, they smell nice. Babies sound very good in theory, but another good theory is Communism and a good theory means nothing if you are going to practice it and have it fail. With Communism they could pack up their things and move to another country when it failed. I am not sure what you do when you fail at having a baby and looking after it. I do not think it is acceptable to pack your things and move to another country and this is where I have my biggest issue, I think.”Darling,” I start. It is a good idea for me to call him darling because he likes that. ”Darling, I think a baby is like Communism bec-”
He stands up and clatters his knife and fork to his plate. I think this is rude because I have not finished talking.
“Excuse me,” I say, ”But I think that is rude because I have not finished talking.”
He is not listening to me. He is washing his plate and singing a made up song. I find this strange. When you ask someone to have a baby, you have to listen to their answer.
His song is about his baby and her little bit of crazy. I have a feeling that he is not talking about an actual infant baby and is actually singing a song about me. This is not the first song he has sung about me. I have many songs. He does not talk about babies or communism for the rest of the night. He talks to the television instead and says that rugby is a stupid game for brain dead wankers.
Later, I ask him if he is angry with me because I said a baby is like communism.
”Yes.” He says, nose touching mine as we lie in bed. ”A baby is not like communism because I see where you are coming from.”
”No,” I say, ”You do not see where I am coming from.”
He does not say anything, which I think is very smart of him because I have learnt that it is easy to make men not say anything if a woman talks about child birth and pain.
I am not afraid of childbirth and pain.
”I,” I say to the ceiling, ”Am not afraid of childbirth and pain.”
Unsurprisingly, the ceiling does not respond.
”I am afraid that I will have a baby that does not like me.”
”That,” He says softly, ”Will not happen.”
I frown and think about it for a moment.
”Did you,” I ask, ”Ever do high school biology?” I feel him nod his head softly.
”In genetics, a baby will only show a characteristic if it has the right gene mix. If we let ‘does not like me’ be the dominant gene and ‘likes me’ be the recessive, we will have a 0% chance of a baby liking me.”
He is confused. I can feel his confusion as he gropes for my hand in the dark.
”I,” I explain, ”Have two dominant ‘does not like me” genes. You, I think, must have two ”likes me” recessive genes because I feel that you like me most of the time except when I say that babies are like communism. But that doesn’t matter because a baby will always get one ‘does not like me’ gene and that will always be more than one of your silly ‘likes me’ genes and then the baby will 100% not like me.”
I have said this all very fast because the truth does not hurt as much if you say it quickly.
He does not say anything. He kisses me instead and makes a sound like he is hurt which is not, I think, a good sound to make when you are kissing somebody because it might offend them.
But it does not offend me.
If that man is Benedict Cumberbatch, so be it.
There are a lot of somethings I am not good at. He tells me these things with an angry voice and calm eyes, and I tell him the things that he is not good at.
”You,” I say as I put my hands on my hips, ”Are not good at saying you are wrong.”
He frowns at me.
“You,” He says, “Are not good at saying that I am right. You are also not good at sudoku or cooking omelettes.”
I throw something soft at him and storm up the stairs.
It is true, though. I am not good at sudoko (I can only do one line before I cry) and I am not good at cooking omelettes. I am good at saying I am wrong, but I am not good at saying other people are right. I think that is not a problem, because at least I can admit when I have been ignorant or hurtful.
It is later when he crawls beside me and doesn’t touch me. He is good at that. He is good at knowing when I want to be touched, and when I will hiss and mewl like a stray cat in a dark street. I am not good at being affectionate.
”You,” He says quietly, ”Are not good at a lot of things.” He is rapping out a strange pattern on the sheets with his nails, twisting and drumming them lightly against the mattress. ”You are not good at sudoko, or omelettes. You are not good at hanging the washing to dry or eating sticky food.”
“I am not good at watching movies.” I whisper back, adding to his list. He laughs and the pattern he is drumming pauses for a moment.
“How can anyone not be good at watching movies?” He asks with a serious voice.
“I,” I say, “Am not good at watching movies because I am afraid I will not understand them and that the plot will be lost on me. I only like to watch movies I have seen before because I know where the hero begins to feel lost. I can skip past that part because no body wants to see the hero stumble. I am not good at watching movies.”
”No.” He agrees. ”No, you are not.”
We are like water and oil now, curled but not touching, whispering things in the dark and not stirring.
”But,” He says after awhile. ”You are good at many somethings as well. You are good at laughing and singing and falling down. You are good at making cakes and swimming. You can make other people feel happy when you do not feel happy, and that is a very brilliant something to be good at.”
I’m lying in bed, the covers up to my armpits and a book rested on my chest, one hand curled around it. He, whoever he may be, is in the kitchen - I can hear him, singing to himself - a made up song, I think. Something about winter and rain and getting on an old green train. I laugh to myself quietly - his voice isn’t bad, and together we make a pretty duet, but his enthusiasm on such a morning as this both intrigues and endears me.
He calls me sweetheart as he hands me a cup of tea not made how exactly how I like it. He says I ask for too much milk, that tea is better the blacker it is, and if I want more milk, I’d best get out of bed and get it myself. I settle for sitting up straight backed against the headboard and applying a generous kiss to his nose.
”An old green train?” I ask, placing my book, in bad habit, flat and upside down over my covered thigh - guiltily thinking to myself that I will eventually buy a bookmark or get good enough to remember the page. He smiles at me and shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. I know it is coffee, even though he made me tea. I can smell it, and I’ve never liked the smell so I wrinkle my nose. ‘You,’ He says, taking a sip and allowing the froth to sit on top of his lower lip, ‘Should just try some.’
‘No.’ I say, and that is that. I take a sip of my tea.That is the glorious thing. We can sit here in our coffee states of mind and just enjoy the sound of heavy rain protesting against the walls around us.
Later, he is lying with one foot over my leg and I don’t mind. His foot is heavy, but it is also warm. If it were cold, I would have pushed it off long ago and curled my own feet under myself. I am like a cat in that way, he has often said. ”Are you enjoying your book?” He asks, filling the room with words for the first time in - I have to discreetly check the clock - three hours. ”Yes.” I say, and that is that.
”I love you.” He says sometime after Chapter 24.
I pause and frown, considering his smile and his eyes and the way he brings me tea, even though he says I do not drink it right and, as an adult, should really drink coffee. I consider his eyebrows and how they knot in frustration when I become angry with him. It is something I do very often, become angry. I scream and yell and tell him that he needs to help me more, because I often do not feel like helping myself. I abuse him with vicious words that I know are not true to make myself feel better.
I consider how his arms open eventually, after we have both screeched and hissed and fought bitterly about things that do not matter, and how he lets me fight with him to stop me fighting with myself.
I consider how his clothes never match but he can tell me the difference between two shades of gun metal grey, and I consider how he watches gory movies with me and pretends to not notice every time I flinch, calling me his brave girl, crazy, brave girl.”I love you, too.” I say, and that is that.
OK so I have a cousin who’s about 42 and she lives at home with her parents and her cat and she’s massively overweight and very, very single and she’s 42 and her name on facebook is ‘Fiona Grohl’ like wife of DAVE GROHL from the Foo Fighters and I dunno man, I really don’t want that to be me and my obsessions in the future but hey it looks like it’s genetic.
CLAUDIA I KNOW YOU CAN SEE THIS
SO SEE IT
AND LET ME LOVE YOU
YOU’RE PERF AND BALLET IS DUMB BUT YOU’RE NOT DUMB YOU’RE LOVELY
AUNTY JESS WORRIES
okay, so I’ve been given the task of making a cake for one of the Year 7’s in my Home Group’s birthday - it is going to be the greatest fucking cake ever and my whole home group will bow to their Senior and sing my praises and my cake skills.
I am tempted to reblog this gif of Benedict over and over until I convert one of you and you come to my ask box and cry over his face with me because SERIOUSLY
- Force Morgan to watch Sherlock
- Watch every episode of the new Dr Who
- Force Morgan to watch Sherlock
- Watch Game of Thrones
- Force Morgan to watch Sherlock
- Force Morgan to watch Sherlock
- Force Morgan to watch Sherlock
- Force Morgan to watch Sherlock
my best friend: you know, you're the only person I don't practice strategic eating with? Normally, I mentally divide the plate of chips, or nachos, or whatever and protect my part with my life and fork, even though I haven't told the other person which part is theirs. But with you.. I don't know. I feel comfortable enough to scream at you 'I DIBS THAT PIECE, EAT IT AND YOU DIE' if I had to, but I never do. We can just eat together.
