Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
On the tub of wipes, there’s a pink Post-it.
Talk to your daughter. Tell her what you’re doing. Tell her your secrets. You got this.
Eira’s here, even when she’s not.
I whip off Guinevere’s nappy. “I’m taking your nappy off,” I say. “Then I’m going to wipe your bottom.” I’ve changed her nappy before and I’ve started to get faster. “No poos,” I say, checking the nappy. I guess she knows that already.
After I’ve changed her and refastened her sleepsuit, I lift her up, careful to support her head. There are some things I remember from medical school. “So, Guinevere, I’m going to be honest with you, I never wanted to be a father. But there’s no way I was going to let someone else fulfil my responsibilities. So here we are. We’re just going to have to make the best of it. I’m sure we’ll get used to each other.”
I head out to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. When I get there, I realize there’s nowhere to put Guinevere down so I can actually make myself the coffee. Then I remember the camp bed thing my mum brought. Park-a-Kid or something. “Do you know where they put that little bed?” I ask. I look around and spot it under the table.
And with it, another pink note.
Don’t be tempted to put it on the table or the counter. It’s not worth it. You got this.
Eira’s reading my mind.
“She wants you on the floor,” I say.
Guinevere moves her head to stare behind me as if she’s looking at someone. She’s so convincing that I actually turn my head to check there isn’t anyone there.
“I need coffee. And you need milk, so…you’re on the floor. I’m not going to overrule Eira. She knows best.” Despite my first impressions, Eira’s incredibly competent. Impressively so. She’s also beautiful. I think back to playing backgammon a couple of nights ago. I was so close to pulling her onto my lap and kissing her. The only thing that stopped me was knowing it could scare her off. Guinevere needs her and so do I.
I put Guinevere into her bed under the kitchen table so the surface acts as a shield from any falling objects and put the coffee machine on.
There’s another Post-it on the mug cupboard.
Get milk ready while the coffee machine works its magic. Clean bottles are in the sterilizer. You got this.
There’s a heart on the end of this note and I stare at it, trying to figure out whether it’s significant. She didn’t move away when I slid my leg against hers the other night.
I pull out the bottles from the sterilizer and fill one with premade milk. “And you can have some breakfast.”
I glance down just in time to see Guinevere scrunch up her face. It’s the thunder rumbling a couple of beats before the lightning, because a couple of seconds later, Guinevere starts to cry.
Shit. What happened?
I scoop her off the floor and she stops. “Didn’t you like it down there?” I tuck her into the crook of my elbow and move her bottle to the kitchen table, then pick up my coffee. “Let’s get our breakfast and the paper, and let’s chill.” I’m about to sit down when I feel my arm warm where she’s lying. I lift her up to inspect her and see an unmistakable brown sludge mark on her babygrow.
“Oh. I see. It’s like that, is it?” I abandon my coffee and head back to my bedroom. I open her babygrow on the changing mat on the floor to find she’s covered in shit. And now her changing mat is covered in shit. And so am I.
So much for a little rest and relaxation with the paper.
“We’re going to need some house rules,” I say. “The first one is ‘no shitting on me’. If you want to shit on any of your uncles, that’s absolutely fine. But not me. Do you hear me?” I maneuver us into the bathroom, trying to make sure nothing drips. There aren’t enough wipes in London to deal with this. She needs to be hosed down like a dog. And so do I.
I set her in her new bath seat and get to work. There were no Post-its for this scenario. “Mary Poppins missed something,” I say to Guinevere. “You didn’t foresee this, did you, Eira?” She’s got me talking to her as well as Guinevere. Madness has set in.
“Second rule,” I say. “No staring at me when I wake up like you’re the ghost of girlfriends past. It freaks me the fuck out.”
We make eye contact. I want her to understand the gravity of these rules. They’re going to be lifelong requirements to ensure our peaceful cohabitation. “You hear me?” She moves her arm haphazardly, almost like she’s drunk and lost control of her limbs.