by Jo Middleton
No message from Sierra.
Saturday 6 January
Courgette cakes admired but not baked – 19. Jaffa cakes – 8. (Bad.)
I went online this evening to look up courgette cakes for my imaginary folder of family recipes but got distracted by a thread on Mumsnet. ‘Am I being unreasonable,’ asked MilkThreeSugars, ‘to be upset that DH doesn’t want to wash baby clothes?’
What the actual? Who doesn’t wash baby clothes? I was outraged on MilkThreeSugars’ behalf. I’m not the most conscientious of parents, but at least I never made my babies just loll around all day in shit-stained Babygros. Christ.
But then I read more and it turns out she wanted to wash the baby’s clothes before he had even worn them. As in when they were brand new and quite probably the cleanest they will ever be. Apparently, this is a ‘thing’ that parents do and she was very upset that her husband thought it was unnecessary. There was a flood of sympathy for her. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked femidom13. ‘Was he raised in a barn?’
Brushing over the name ‘femidom13’ because I just can’t even fathom – had twelve people already claimed the name? – who are all these people washing brand-new clothes? Talk about making work for yourself.
Wondered for a while about all the things that other parents might be doing that no one has told me about. Honestly, I really do try to do my best for my kids, but someone needs to tell me if there are things like this that I’m meant to be doing.
Scrolled back through @simple_dorset_life’s feed until I found a courgette cake – I knew she wouldn’t let me down. ‘My boys were worried at first that this cake might be naughty,’ she wrote, ‘but when I told them about the courgettes they tucked right in!’
Good grief.
Sunday 7 January
Number of times I’ve checked phone for a message from Sierra – too many. Hours of Netflix watched by Flo unregulated by me – all of them.
Here’s a thing I don’t understand about parenting: you spend days, weeks, longing for a bit of time on your own, counting the hours down until someone else can take over the responsibility. And then they’re gone and you miss them and find yourself burying your face in their pillows to breathe in their smell. You know that thing when you look at your sleeping baby and are suddenly overwhelmed by love? It’s like that, only you have to just stand in their rooms and imagine them asleep.
I watched all three of them out of my bedroom window this afternoon when Ian brought them home. Jess was on Ian’s shoulders and she had her head thrown back, laughing. Flo was more animated than she ever seems to be with me and was walking hand in hand with Ian, their arms swinging between them. My breath caught in my chest and I ducked out of the way before they saw me behind the glass.
Flo let them in and I heard the noise of their laughter move into the kitchen as I came slowly down the stairs. I stopped in the doorway and Ian noticed me before the girls did and smiled at me over their heads. I smelt the smell of him, soaked up by our children, and for a second I longed to be able to love him in the way he once wanted me to. Or perhaps still does.
Jess turned and saw me and started to tell me about how she’d beaten everyone at bowling and the spell was broken.
‘You did have the sides up and you used the ramp,’ Flo pointed out, but as she said it she bent and prodded Jess’s tummy fondly. ‘Plus you ate all those chips, which definitely gave you extra powers.’ I looked at them there in the kitchen, two sisters, and wondered how I had made such beautiful girls.
I offered Ian a cup of tea. He looked a bit sad and said no. He kissed the girls goodbye and I stood at the front door and watched him go.
‘Can I watch Netflix?’ shouted Flo from the lounge.
‘As long as it’s not vampires,’ I shouted back, closing the door and going back into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Jess has been having vampire-related nightmares since she accidentally walked in on Flo watching a particularly gory scene involving a fight over an amulet.
I made a cup of tea and Jess went upstairs and put all of her Sylvanians in a carrier bag to ‘take them on holidays’ without so much as a mention of the attention to detail in my rustic farmers’ market scene.
I thought quite a lot about Ian this evening. I know that the separation was the right thing to do, that we were always better as friends than as lovers, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if we did the right thing, especially when I see him with the girls and how happy they all are together. Am I chasing a dream of something that doesn’t exist? Should I be settling for something simpler? Not that it’s my decision to make. Although it was me who said it out loud, Ian knew it wasn’t working either and I don’t think he would want to get back together, not really. For the girls, maybe, but that would hardly be fair.
The worst part of the break-up, of course, was telling my parents. They’ve always been amazingly supportive and I couldn’t have asked for more from them, but when I married Ian you could tell that they were just so relieved. They’d felt responsible for me for a long time, especially after Cam left, and at last there was someone else that they felt they could trust to look after me.
They tried for years to have a baby and were in their early forties when I came along – that much-longed-for only child – so they were retired then by the time Flo was a toddler. They were a massive help when she was young and I was on my own with her, and I never felt as though I was imposing, exactly, but I knew, too, that they’d always had a dream of moving to France when they retired, and I couldn’t help but feel as if they were putting their life on hold for me.
When Ian and I got married, they finally felt able to make that step, and so for a long time after we separated I didn’t tell them – I didn’t want them to feel as if they had to come back and take care of me again. It was difficult, but they seem OK with it now, especially knowing Ian is so close by. I know they’d be happier if we got back together. Hardly a reason, though, I guess.
Nothing from Sierra. I keep replaying the ridiculous Fox comment over and over in my head. Decided I was being ridiculous and messaged her instead.
Monday 8 January
Boring-looking work emails moved to ‘TO ACTION’ folder, likely never to be seen again – 127. Baby beavers missing presumed dead – 1.
Back to work today. Jess decided, just as we were leaving for nursery, that she wanted to take the carrier bag of Sylvanians with her. I said no. No way did I want them getting mixed up with the communal nursery toys – those critters are pricey.
Negotiations ensued.
By ‘negotiations’ I mean that Jess screamed and refused to let me put on her shoes until I agreed to her taking the beaver family in a leftover takeaway box. There were further discussions when we arrived at nursery and I suggested she leave them safely in the car for the day. Jess screeched. I was now late for work so I had to give in.
‘I’ll look after them, darling,’ she assured me, sounding like a fifty-two-year-old ladies’ golf club member. No idea where she picked up ‘darling’.
Ten minutes late for work. Steve asked if I’d enjoyed my holiday and managed to say ‘holiday’ in a way that implied I’d been lying alone on a beach for two weeks being brought pina coladas by a stream of eligible bachelors.
As payback, I chose to forget to remind him that his meeting with the museum’s board of trustees had been brought forward by half an hour. I loitered near his office to listen for the angry call from the chair ten minutes after the meeting start time.
Seven emails from Cecilia about the volunteer rota for the summer exhibition.
Drafted a reply: ‘For Christ’s sake, Cecilia, it’s 4 January. We’re a fossil museum. It’s not exactly a fast-paced industry, the fossils aren’t going anywhere. Do you not have any other hobbies?’
Indulged briefly in a fantasy where I actually sent the email and Cecilia resigned her position as volunteer summer exhibition co-ordinator and I never had to hear another story about her cocker spaniel’s bowel condi
tion.
One baby beaver was conspicuously missing from the takeaway box when I collected Jess from nursery. Her bag did contain a note, though, informing me that liqueur chocolates are not allowed in packed lunches and could I please refrain from sending Jess in with Grand Marnier in the future.
Must have got those muddled up with the Christmas Quality Street.
Tuesday 9 January
Fruitlessly battled with Flo to try to get her to wear a coat to school this morning, what with there being actual frost on the ground, but she assured me she wasn’t cold. I could see her breath coming out in clouds as she spoke, so I wasn’t convinced. She pushed her hands into her blazer pockets so I wouldn’t see them turning blue and reminded me that no one wears coats and that, even if she did, what was she meant to do with it exactly, just carry it round with her all day?
I said yes and she looked at me pityingly, as if she understood life and I didn’t. Sometimes I think she could be right.
I mentioned the baby beaver when I dropped off Jess at nursery and her key worker smiled over-enthusiastically and said they would ‘hunt high and low!’ Do nurseries train their staff to be so annoyingly jolly or do they purposely pick people who have it about them already?
No reply from Sierra. She clearly hates me.
Wednesday 10 January
Minutes of life wasted in pursuit of the perfect body, as prescribed to me by society/Heat magazine – 8. Glasses of wine drunk and Jaffa Cakes eaten in a bid to prove to self that I am happy with body as is and don’t need to be thin to be content – 3 + 9. (Point well made.)
In the spirit of 2018 being the year I embrace change, get fit and thin and tanned etc., etc., I decided to use my child-free evening this week to have my first-ever sunbed. I’m thinking that if I have a ‘just got back from a sexy winter sun holiday’ tan then at least people might be distracted from the chub while I gather the motivation to join a gym.
I felt weirdly nervous parking the car and did a shifty look around me to make sure no one I knew was about before I opened the door. Inside, I was greeted by a woman whose face reminded me of a leather handbag I bought during my honeymoon with Ian in Mykonos. Her name badge said ‘Sandra’.
Sandra helped me set up my ‘membership’, which made me feel a bit like perhaps I was as good as joining a gym after all, and I topped up my tan credit using my fingerprint. While Sandra was distracted by another customer, I accidentally used the touchscreen to buy three pairs of safety goggles.
Sandra then showed me into the tanning room and demonstrated how I should wipe down the bed with the provided spray before using it. Once inside, I was to pull the lid of the bed down over me. I made a joke about panini. She didn’t laugh.
‘Is there a start button or something?’ I asked, feeling a bit stupid.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it starts automatically, so you’ve got about ninety seconds now to get sorted.’ I looked panicked. ‘You’d best get going,’ she added helpfully, and left the room.
I scrambled out of my clothes, in two minds as to whether or not I was meant to keep on my pants. I thought probably not, but then what if you actually were and I turned it into one of those ‘accidentally naked in a sauna’ moments? I’d locked the door, but you never knew in places like this.
I decided to risk it, took off my pants and lay down on the bed, wondering how many other bums had been in exactly the same spot. I pulled the sandwich toaster top down over me, ready to become Jennifer Aniston.
The safety goggles were like black swimming goggles, designed to be strung together and fixed around the back of your head. Sandra had made me nervous with her countdown, though, so I skipped fiddling about with the string and went for just balancing them on my eyes. This was fine until I turned my head to the side to check my positioning and the left goggle fell off on to the bed next to my head. I fumbled for it, trying at the same time to keep the right goggle in place, worried that at any moment the tanning would start and I would be immediately blinded.
I found it just as the bed lit up and a robot voice welcomed me to what turned out to be possibly the longest and hottest eight minutes of my life.
Sandra had shown me some buttons, but with my eyes closed behind the goggles (are you meant to do this? Not sure …) I couldn’t figure out how to switch on the fans. I felt as if I might actually be being toasted, cheese-and-tuna panini-style. When I finally escaped I noticed a sign on the wall informing me (too late) – that the facial tanners are extremely powerful and can be turned down from the console. Fantastic.
I’d expected afterwards to feel kind of glowing and lustrous. Instead, I just felt sweaty. And I mean really sweaty. I stopped at little Tesco on the way home for a few essentials – bread, wine, Jaffa Cakes – and I could feel sweat pooling around my bum and rolling down the back of my thighs.
Spotted Flo’s physics teacher so hid behind the coffee machine to avoid any kind of sweaty encounter. He had eight cans of cider and a meat feast pizza in his basket, so clearly enjoying the start of term.
Thursday 11 January
Busy Beavers this afternoon and Sierra brought me in a bag of mini chocolate-chip cookies to apologise for not being in touch. She told me that Fox had buried her phone in the garden and then watered it to see if it would grow into a phone tree. (It didn’t).
Apparently, mini-cookie bags are ideal for stealth snacking as the smaller-than-normal cookie size means you can put a whole one in your mouth at once, thus minimising the risk that a small child will spot you daring to enjoy yourself.
I think she might be my soulmate.
Saturday 13 January
Changing room number tags accidentally shoplifted – 1. Strangers traumatised – at least 1. New ideas for ways to use bunting to bring a ‘splash of colour’ to a child’s bedroom – more than necessary.
If anyone from Marks & Spencer ever reads this, I have a genius idea for you – paid childcare for changing rooms. I’m thinking something like one pound per three minutes? You’d hardly have them for any time at all, so you wouldn’t even have to think up decent activities: you could literally just sit them in a corner with a mini fudge from the food hall or something. Seriously, wouldn’t it be nice to not have to take a small child in with you while you try on swimming costumes? I can’t say it was exactly a boost for my self-confidence to have Jess outright laugh when I took off my bra.
‘Do a dance, Mummy!’ she shrieked with glee. ‘Make your boobies wobble!’ I refused. She looked cross. ‘Do a dance!’ she shouted again, slightly less gleefully. I told her that I really didn’t want to do a dance, I just wanted to try on some swimming costumes, but she didn’t seem to be on board with that. She started slapping at my legs and crying, which I thought probably didn’t sound great through the curtain.
I tried to ignore her and took the first costume off the hanger. I wrestled the Lycra over my thighs, the straps somehow becoming more twisted the more I tried to straighten them out. I looked in the mirror, my face red and shiny, thighs puckered, a stark V-shaped tan line on my increasingly wrinkly chest. I was sure I was younger and thinner last time I looked. When did my cleavage start to look like that of a sixty-four-year-old woman who likes to wear a lot of gold jewellery and lives for half the year in Spain?
I looked down for Jess, just in time to hear a startled gasp from the changing room next door and a ‘Hello, lady!’ from Jess. I yanked her back in, shouted apologies and kept my eyes fixed on her as I changed back into my clothes, nudging her into a corner with my feet whenever she tried to make a break for it.
Came out of the changing rooms and bumped into a pushchair containing a smiley toddler eating a carrot stick. It was being pushed by a serene-looking woman with the shiniest hair I have ever seen. I mumbled sorry and dragged Jess outside. I took her into the toyshop, thinking that might calm her down, but instead she had a tantrum because I wouldn’t buy her a set of Sylvanian Family bunkbeds for her baby beavers. Ten pounds they wanted for them. Whoever invented Sylvania
n Families must be chuckling to themselves as they recline on a lounger on the deck of their yacht.
Flo was in one of her lovely moods when we got home, where she decides Jess is her best friend ever, so I was able to recover quietly from the changing-room ordeal with a cup of tea and a scroll through Instagram. Way too many New Year-inspired smoothies for my liking, so I made myself feel bad by looking at kids’ bedroom makeovers on Pinterest instead. Who are these parents with the time and inclination to build wigwams and hand-stitch bunting?
The girls disappeared upstairs again after tea and at about seven o’clock they came downstairs for the sofa cushions, saying they were having a sleepover in Flo’s room and I mustn’t come in. I happily agreed and moved to the beanbag. A small price to pay.
Poured a glass of wine and WhatsApped Sierra my tale of changing-room woe. She sympathised with a story about Fox involving a shoe fitting with a female shop assistant with an unfortunate amount of facial hair.
At about eight I heard Jess tiptoe downstairs and into the kitchen. She rummaged noisily in the snack cupboard and I used my phone as a sort of periscope to watch her run back up the stairs with two bags of Frazzles.
(Question: does anyone actually like bunting or are we all just too scared to be the first one to say we think it’s shit?)
Sunday 14 January
I dreamed last night that I was at a soft play centre with the shiny-haired mum from M&S. She was stuck in the ball pit and I was just watching and laughing and holding a glass of prosecco in each hand.
To make up for yesterday I spent the afternoon with Jess, making our own versions of Sylvanian Family furniture. I made some bunk beds with two matchboxes, four cocktail sticks and some masking tape, which I was very pleased with. I also upcycled a Müller rice pot into a hot tub and made a mini firepit with an empty Petite Filous one and some twigs from the garden. I think I might have had more fun than Jess did. Bit worrying.
