The Baby I Prepared For

The cot made me write this.

I looked at it again recently, sitting on top of my wardrobe, and all the memories came rushing back. I remembered how excited I was to finally have a baby after waiting for four years, and how I convinced myself that I needed to buy everything I could need before she arrived.

I got married in 2014, and my husband and I initially decided we wouldn’t have kids right away. We wanted to enjoy each other’s company and settle into marriage before we started trying. About two years later, we decided it was time, and then we experienced what the doctors called unexplained infertility. We ran tests. Everything came back fine, for both of us. Nothing to treat, nothing to fix, and yet the baby wasn’t coming.

There was a WhatsApp group I was in with other women trying to conceive, and every day someone would show up with a new drug that had “worked” for them. I never took any of it. My husband wouldn’t approve anyway, and honestly, the hospital had already told me nothing was wrong. But I knew I was getting close to the point where I might hide and try something anyway, just to feel like I was doing more than waiting.

In 2018, we got tired of making TTC the centre of everything, so in March, we went to a beach resort in Lekki for the weekend. We’d meant to go for Valentine’s but never made it, and eventually decided we didn’t need an occasion to enjoy ourselves. We went on a Friday, came back on Sunday morning. For that weekend, I stopped thinking about pregnancy.

In April, I felt the familiar signs my period was coming, the ones my body always gives me. Two days passed. Nothing. On the third morning, I peed on a strip and saw two lines. I didn’t believe them, so I left the test on the bathroom counter and came back ten minutes later, still two bright red lines. I screamed, fell on the floor, and cried. Tears of joy, obviously; we’d tried everything short of the drugs from that group chat. I called my husband. He asked if I was sure. I wasn’t, not fully, not until the lab said so.

My Google searches changed overnight. Instead of how to get pregnant, it was: what do I need for a newborn, when should I register for antenatal, and what are the best hospitals around Ikeja?

We found Soteria Specialist Hospital, a church-run place near Ojodu Berger, affordable but still good quality, which mattered because we didn’t have much money to spare. My husband kept delaying the registration, so instead of going at 12 weeks, as I was supposed to, we went at 14 weeks. They gave me a list of things to bring on delivery day.

That list opened the floodgates.

I was in Lagos, buying from lists and recommendations I was seeing on pregnancy apps, many of which were written for women in the US and the UK. I didn't need half of what they were recommending for a baby who would be born in Lagos, but I didn't know that yet.

I bought Tommee Tippee disposable breast pads because the articles kept talking about leaking breast milk and how I would need something to protect my clothes. I bought an Avent breast pump because expressing milk seemed like one of those things every prepared mother needed to know how to do. I also had Avent feeding bottles, because those were the bottles I kept seeing in the recommendations.

My husband kept asking, “Are you sure you need this?” and I kept finding reasons why I did. I wasn't just buying baby things; I was following the instructions from “experts” I had been reading.

Of course, I didn't know that my daughter would reject the bottles and make the breast pump completely unnecessary.

Then there was the baby bath set. I found one I loved at a shop, imported, came with everything, and cost ₦20,000. My husband said we weren’t spending that much; he was sure I could get one for ₦5,000. I argued mine would last longer and wouldn’t break. He won. Today, that ₦5,000 set is still on top of my wardrobe. The only thing that ever broke was the cup. Both my children used the potty that came with it: my daughter, who’s seven now, and my son, who’s four.

Every few days, I’d open Flo to check what was happening with my body, then move over to Pregnancy, Baby, and You to see what the baby looked like that week. I loved the fruit comparisons; one week she was an orange, then a peach, then a watermelon. I’d look at the little illustration on my screen, then look down at my stomach, trying to imagine the actual person growing in there. Between the two apps, I had three different due dates. I latched onto December 25.

Christmas came. No baby.

On the 31st, I told my husband it would be nice to cook before she arrived, so we walked to the market for what I needed for bitter-leaf soup. I cooked while the contractions built, closer and closer. I told him it was time. He said to wait; I think we’d both watched too many movies about what labour was supposed to look like. I showered, felt them tighten further, and left for the hospital without him.

I was two centimetres dilated when I arrived, only just starting, so they put me in a monitoring room. Omo, I told my husband to bring the soup and fufu because the journey far! And while everyone else was heading into crossover service or a party somewhere, I sat on a hospital bed eating fufu, waiting for my baby girl.

By 10 p.m., the contractions were coming back to back. He kept pressing my back through each one, and I kept asking him to press harder. Six hours later, I was still only six centimetres. I was tired and didn't want anything to happen to her, so I asked for a C-section.

At 6:10 a.m. on January 1, 2019, I heard her cry.

I was awake for it; the anaesthesia was the kind that takes the pain but wouldn't knock you off. When they finally brought her to me, she looked so much like me I couldn’t stop staring.

And just like that, none of it mattered anymore. Not the breast pump, not the nursing pads, especially not the cot.

And if there's one thing about me, I enjoy my sleep. So the cot, I never even tried it. I eventually realised the cot made no sense for the way I was feeding her at night. Getting up every time she wanted to feed, walking to the cot, bringing her back and then putting her down again was exhausting, so I didn't bother.

And that’s probably why I still haven’t thrown the cot away. Every time I see it on top of my wardrobe, I remember the version of me who bought it. I had waited four years for this baby and wanted to be ready for everything. I didn’t know yet that the baby I was preparing for would have her own ideas about bottles, cots, feeding, and sleep.

I thought I was preparing for motherhood, but I was really preparing to meet my daughter.