1.
“Mick, what the hell am I supposed to do with a lamb?”
Mary looked down at the lamb. Her fleece was white as snow, and her ears were sticking out the sides of her fluffy head like Yoda. She had a red collar on, like some new breed of dog, and Mary’s best friend Mick was holding the lead, offering it to her with a big smile.
“It’s a pick me up present. My grandad has an acre up in the hills and one of his ewes just gave birth. Voilà my love! An instant lamb-baby.”
Mary had been in a slump since she had found out she was infertile. She desperately wanted to have a baby and as a single woman, had asked Mick to be her donor. He was kind, smart, funny and gorgeous. Besides, they had been best friends since primary school, so Mary wasn’t embarrassed to ask him to jack off into a cup.
After months of trying, Mary knew something was wrong. Sitting in the doctor’s office, all she heard him say was “You can’t have a baby.” Later, while sitting on the couch at home, she had read through the fertility results.
“Irregular shaped uterus. Less than a 1% chance of getting pregnant.”
The next couple of weeks were a blur. Mick tried to comfort Mary. Had brought her flowers and chocolates, anything in the hope that she would return to her usual self. But Mary felt numb, struggling to accept that she could never give birth.
Mary looked at her best friend. Surely he was joking. A lamb was not a substitute for a baby. But the love and concern in his eyes told her otherwise. Mick was the only person that understood how badly she wanted to be a mother and in his world, a lamb was the next best thing.
“You could have bought me a dog Mick.”
“I read on the net that lambs are like human babies. You can bottle feed them and they bond with you like mother and child.”
Mary looked at the lamb. Okay, it wasn’t an actual baby, but maybe Mick was right? Maybe the lamb would fill that empty place in her heart? And maybe, by taking her home, she would stop crying whenever she went near a baby?
Mary put her hand on the lamb’s back and stroked it.
“How would you like to go home with me?”
The lamb wriggled her body and bleated.
“Alright,” Mary said laughing. “I’ll take her. But if it gets too much, you’ll have to take her back.”
2.
Mary stared at the lamb and then at the bag of supplies Mick had left: a baby bottle, milk, a dog bowl, lots of nappies and a large pre-mix bag of hay and grain. Judging by the image on the bag, she was sure it was rabbit food. Just as Mary was wondering what the nappies were for, a foul smell wafted up to her nostrils. Sighing, she got off the couch and proceeded to clean up the mess. Knee deep in lamb poo, Mary understood the need for nappies. She lived in an apartment. She had no backyard. She couldn’t take the lamb out on the street in case some nosy parker reported her to the council.
“Mick’s thought of everything, hasn’t he?”
When the last paper towel was in the bin, Mary grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and cut round holes out of the nappies. Wrestling with the lamb that was wriggling and trying to get away, Mary slipped the nappy on, poking her tail through the hole she had cut. She took the bowl out of the bag, filled it with rabbit food, and watched the lamb gobble it down.
“You’re pretty cute when you’re eating.”
Mary warmed the milk up in the microwave and then laughed as the lamb jumped into her lap to be fed. By this time, it was getting dark and Mary was feeling exhausted. Forgetting about feeding herself, she fell into bed. Parenting was hard work.
3.
The lamb had spent the night on Mary’s bed, curled up against her body like she was an electric blanket. In the morning, the lamb looked refreshed, ready for another day of frolicking about the house. Mary, on the other hand was worn out, exhausted from a night of changing nappies. She felt guilty about her feelings. Rather than a mother’s unconditional love for her baby, she felt tired and grumpy and irritable. She had already begun to feel like a prisoner in her own home. Everywhere Mary went the lamb was sure to follow her. Into the kitchen for a snack, on the couch watching TV, in the bathroom when she was having a shower, and even to the toilet. The lamb wedged herself between the cubicle and the wall, happily chewing the toilet paper right out of Mary’s hand. Mary felt trapped. She wondered if all new parents felt the same way.
4.
Two weeks had passed and Mary was at her wits end. She hadn’t left the house, calling in sick at work with a “bad case of the flu.” She hadn’t spoken to anyone but the lamb. She was sleep deprived and feeling isolated from the rest of the world. She wondered why Mick hadn’t called and made up elaborate reasons why he hadn’t — he had found a new best friend; he was donating sperm to a worthier woman; he could smell the stench of her house from his. It drove her crazy. Mary was worried about the wellbeing of her baby. She wasn’t growing. She wasn’t showing any signs of independence and Mary was sure she was slowly poisoning her with rabbit food. Mary hadn’t showered in days. Her hair was thinning, her eyes were red and blotchy, and she had a maniacal look plastered across her face. She was starting to resemble a gremlin — after they’ve been fed. The emotional and physical demands were just too much.
Sitting on the couch, a box of tissues in her lap, Mary cried, while the lamb sat at her feet, pulling up fibres from her Persian rug. She missed her work, her friends, going out to dinner and doing whatever she wanted. Despite pangs of remorse, Mary picked up her mobile phone and dialled Mick’s number.
5.
Mary was happy once again. She visited the lamb at Mick’s grandad’s farm. She looked happy too, frolicking about the yard, eating grass and grains and pooing wherever she wanted to. Mary looked at Mick and smiled.
“Thank God you didn’t give me a baby.”