Piece Of Cake
Entry by: Kim
25th September 2015
Piece of Cake
The first time I thought that something wasn’t quite right was when I thought my baby was going to kill me. I lay next to her crib at night-time, terrified, listening to her breathing, sure it was turning into a rasping and she was going to stand up, like a mini Chucky doll, and tear me apart limb by limb. Not a pleasant way to spend the night. I thought I would be a perfect mother, I had so looked forward to this baby even though I was on my own. It would be a piece of cake, I thought, this parenting lark.
Lots of parents say that they hover over their baby to check they’re still breathing. I was hovering alright, but just to check she wasn’t going to kill me. She looked so peaceful but I didn’t let that fool me.
The second sign was the cakes. I always had a sweet tooth, liked the ones with raspberry jam oozing out of the middle, liked scooping out the icing with my finger. But now I had an incessant need for them. When I was on night watch - watching the baby for signs of murderous intent - I would go into the kitchen, sit at the table and pull out the box of cakes that I bought daily at the bakers. I would devour them ravenously in one sitting, one eye firmly on the kitchen door incase my 6 pound baby came tottering in with wild eyes and empty sucking mouth. It was the only thing that brought me any comfort during those terrifying days.
I’m an educated woman, I knew all about post natal depression and that it wasn’t normal to think that your baby would kill you. So I did the correct thing and I sought help.
‘Tell me about your problems,’ said the kindly psychologist
‘I think my baby is going to kill me,’ I explained calmly, rocking the pram back and forth incase she woke up and needed something from me again. She was always needing, this baby.
‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘that’s interesting.’ He wrote something down on his notepad.
‘What did you write?’ I was curious leaning forward, but he leant forward as well, eyes squinting at me.
‘You appear to have something round your mouth,’ he said.
I used my tongue to lick off the blob of cream left over from last night’s cake eating session.
I think he was a bit concerned. I was certainly rather concerned and I wrote a list of all the odd behaviour that I had engaged in. Laughed inappropriately at an inappropriate joke. Made tea when I meant to make coffee. Forgot to feed the cat but fed myself copious amounts of cake. Put odd socks on in the morning. He looked over my list and said that it was very normal behaviour, apart from the cake obsession and the murderous baby thing. He handed me a prescription and said he would need to see me again, and in the meantime, he would speak to a social worker who might be able to help.
‘I am happy for any help,’ I said politely. He didn’t ask to see the baby. I don’t think men ever do. She was all tucked in sound asleep as if she didn’t have a murderous thought in her head. But I knew different.
When the social workers came, they asked to see the baby. They asked me silly questions like where I had the baby, as if that mattered. They said they didn’t have any records of my baby. ‘Why does everyone need a record?’ I asked in frustration. ‘Can’t people just be?’
They exchanged glances and asked again to see the baby.
I took them into the room with the crib. I hoped she wasn’t awake because then she would start that needing thing again, and that can be so tiresome. They went over to her and I thought they would wake her up and this made me cross. ‘Where is she?’ they asked.
‘Right there,’ I said pointing. Talk about having to make their job easier! They looked at each other uncomfortably again and then they came towards me, patting me on the shoulder and guiding me into a seat.
‘There’s no baby here,’ they said
‘What?’ I had no other words. This was the most ridiculous thing they had said yet, and believe me they had said a lot of ridiculous things so far.
I looked again at the crib. There she was, my living breathing horror film.
‘Look again,’ they urged me, so I screwed my eyes up really tight and looked again.
Her head was made up of a big round iced bun with two currants. Her body was a large piece of carrot cake. Her little stick arms were chocolate eclairs and she had two big round doughnuts for feet. I blinked and blinked but couldn’t blink away the image. The social workers were talking in hushed whispers and phoning for a doctor. ‘There’s no baby,’ they whispered down the line, ‘she’s been making it from cakes and eating it every day.’
I went over to the crib and looked for my baby amongst all the sweetness. She did not appear to be here, so I started to pick up the separate parts of her and ate every single part of that delicious wonderful baby. I was getting cream and jam all over my face but I didn’t really mind. Now I had eaten her, she definitely could not kill me.
I’ve been on the ward now for 18 days. They say that I am responding well to medication but when they bring the tea things out, there is never ever not even one tiny piece of cake on the tray. I do miss it. I have always loved cake after all.
The first time I thought that something wasn’t quite right was when I thought my baby was going to kill me. I lay next to her crib at night-time, terrified, listening to her breathing, sure it was turning into a rasping and she was going to stand up, like a mini Chucky doll, and tear me apart limb by limb. Not a pleasant way to spend the night. I thought I would be a perfect mother, I had so looked forward to this baby even though I was on my own. It would be a piece of cake, I thought, this parenting lark.
Lots of parents say that they hover over their baby to check they’re still breathing. I was hovering alright, but just to check she wasn’t going to kill me. She looked so peaceful but I didn’t let that fool me.
The second sign was the cakes. I always had a sweet tooth, liked the ones with raspberry jam oozing out of the middle, liked scooping out the icing with my finger. But now I had an incessant need for them. When I was on night watch - watching the baby for signs of murderous intent - I would go into the kitchen, sit at the table and pull out the box of cakes that I bought daily at the bakers. I would devour them ravenously in one sitting, one eye firmly on the kitchen door incase my 6 pound baby came tottering in with wild eyes and empty sucking mouth. It was the only thing that brought me any comfort during those terrifying days.
I’m an educated woman, I knew all about post natal depression and that it wasn’t normal to think that your baby would kill you. So I did the correct thing and I sought help.
‘Tell me about your problems,’ said the kindly psychologist
‘I think my baby is going to kill me,’ I explained calmly, rocking the pram back and forth incase she woke up and needed something from me again. She was always needing, this baby.
‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘that’s interesting.’ He wrote something down on his notepad.
‘What did you write?’ I was curious leaning forward, but he leant forward as well, eyes squinting at me.
‘You appear to have something round your mouth,’ he said.
I used my tongue to lick off the blob of cream left over from last night’s cake eating session.
I think he was a bit concerned. I was certainly rather concerned and I wrote a list of all the odd behaviour that I had engaged in. Laughed inappropriately at an inappropriate joke. Made tea when I meant to make coffee. Forgot to feed the cat but fed myself copious amounts of cake. Put odd socks on in the morning. He looked over my list and said that it was very normal behaviour, apart from the cake obsession and the murderous baby thing. He handed me a prescription and said he would need to see me again, and in the meantime, he would speak to a social worker who might be able to help.
‘I am happy for any help,’ I said politely. He didn’t ask to see the baby. I don’t think men ever do. She was all tucked in sound asleep as if she didn’t have a murderous thought in her head. But I knew different.
When the social workers came, they asked to see the baby. They asked me silly questions like where I had the baby, as if that mattered. They said they didn’t have any records of my baby. ‘Why does everyone need a record?’ I asked in frustration. ‘Can’t people just be?’
They exchanged glances and asked again to see the baby.
I took them into the room with the crib. I hoped she wasn’t awake because then she would start that needing thing again, and that can be so tiresome. They went over to her and I thought they would wake her up and this made me cross. ‘Where is she?’ they asked.
‘Right there,’ I said pointing. Talk about having to make their job easier! They looked at each other uncomfortably again and then they came towards me, patting me on the shoulder and guiding me into a seat.
‘There’s no baby here,’ they said
‘What?’ I had no other words. This was the most ridiculous thing they had said yet, and believe me they had said a lot of ridiculous things so far.
I looked again at the crib. There she was, my living breathing horror film.
‘Look again,’ they urged me, so I screwed my eyes up really tight and looked again.
Her head was made up of a big round iced bun with two currants. Her body was a large piece of carrot cake. Her little stick arms were chocolate eclairs and she had two big round doughnuts for feet. I blinked and blinked but couldn’t blink away the image. The social workers were talking in hushed whispers and phoning for a doctor. ‘There’s no baby,’ they whispered down the line, ‘she’s been making it from cakes and eating it every day.’
I went over to the crib and looked for my baby amongst all the sweetness. She did not appear to be here, so I started to pick up the separate parts of her and ate every single part of that delicious wonderful baby. I was getting cream and jam all over my face but I didn’t really mind. Now I had eaten her, she definitely could not kill me.
I’ve been on the ward now for 18 days. They say that I am responding well to medication but when they bring the tea things out, there is never ever not even one tiny piece of cake on the tray. I do miss it. I have always loved cake after all.
Follow us on Twitter
Follow us on Instagram