Playgroups and Prosecco

by Jo Middleton

  As my own flesh and blood clearly have no interest in my health and well-being, I turned to the Internet for support. ‘Part of tooth fallen off on bank holiday weekend,’ I typed into Google. I added the bank holiday weekend bit for drama. Suggestions ranged from gargling frequently with salt water (yuk) to plugging the gap with bubblegum (questionable) with lots of talk of crowns and bridges and other expensive-sounding procedures. Perhaps I could fashion something out of Mini Egg shell?

  I’m sure @simple_dorset_life has perfect teeth, brushed twice daily with some sort of organic, hemp-infused toothpaste. She has been doing yoga again on Instagram. Her latest picture is a close-up of her feet – her hands are flat on the floor between them. I was inspired to see if I could do the same, but I couldn’t even bend enough to touch my toes. I’m pretty sure I used to be able to touch my toes. When does your body just seize up?

  The caption read, ‘Sometimes you just need to pause, clear your mind, open your heart and breathe deep. Family life can be hectic, but nothing centres me like taking half an hour out of my day to connect with my body and my soul through yoga. I’m so much more tolerant with my children when I’m balanced inside and out. #thatyogalife #blissful #thepowerofthebreath’.

  Having had a go at touching my toes certainly didn’t make me more patient with Jess at bedtime. Perhaps I’m missing something.

  Sunday 1 April – Easter Sunday

  Injuries sustained in semi-darkness due to own stupidity – 3. Easter eggs accidentally eaten on good side of mouth during hiding process – 8 (had bought extra especially).

  Woke up at about 3 a.m. in a cold sweat because I’d forgotten to hide the Easter eggs before I went to bed last night. I got out of bed and put on yesterday’s dress, which was, helpfully, in a heap on the floor where I’d stepped out of it. It took me a little while to remember where I’d put the eggs, what with it being the middle of the night and me having had all those medicinal gins while I watched reruns of Queer Eye.

  I poked at the tooth a bit with my tongue to bring me back to reality. The hole was still there.

  Having located the eggs I fumbled my way around the lounge and hallway in the dark, trying to feel for suitable hiding places. I cursed myself for not being one of those grown-ups who keeps a torch in the cupboard under the stairs like my gran and grandad used to. I didn’t want to switch on any lights for fear of waking up Jess and shattering the whole Easter Bunny illusion for good.

  She’s only three but she already has her suspicions about Father Christmas. During December last year Flo kept picking things up every time we went into Claire’s and saying, ‘Can I have this in my stocking, Mum?’

  I had to keep saying ridiculous things in a loud voice like, ‘I’m sure Father Christmas would be happy to get that for you, why don’t I pop it in the basket now and then I can send him a special message to let him know that an elf can come and collect it from me?’ Even I thought it sounded lame.

  As I hid the last egg and smacked my toe into the kitchen door frame I remembered about the whole phone-with-a-torch thing.

  Monday 2 April

  Times listened to last two bars of Thomas the Tank Engine theme tune – 52. Number of times I wanted to smash the Thomas the Tank Engine machine with a bat – 52.

  We’ve turned into Easter savages. It rained all morning so we ate chocolate buttons for breakfast and stayed in our pyjamas to watch Lilo & Stitch. By 2 p.m. Jess was starting to get a little bit ‘bouncy’, as nursery would say if they were being kind, so I took her to Micro Soft to sweat out the sugar.

  I spent quite a lot of time watching a man in his forties who was there with a boy who looked about a year old. He could barely walk, (the child not the man), so his dad had to follow him around, shoving him up the foam steps one by one. Dad was nicely dressed and had a pretty sharp haircut. He looked as though he could be thinking of things he’d rather be doing, like balancing his investment portfolio, training for a marathon or stabbing himself in the leg with a sharpened stick.

  The indignity of the whole situation kept me watching. This man, who in his professional life is probably successfully and well respected, is crawling on his hands and knees through a ball pit, occasionally having to pick off things that have stuck to him along the way. The child would probably be just as happy at home, sitting in a cardboard box with some plastic cups but he’s forced to go down a slide again and again, unable to say, ‘Would you mind not pushing me through those rollers, please?’

  There is a ride-on Thomas the Tank engine machine in one corner of Micro Soft and due to the number of parents at their wits’ end after the chocolate fiasco of Easter weekend I’d been forced to sit near it. These things really piss me off because you’ve just paid a ridiculous amount to come into the building and have a disgusting cup of coffee and now you have to fend off requests for fifty-pence pieces every five minutes.

  Also, Thomas’s front lights flash continuously and every few minutes he plays the closing bars from the title music. Just those last few notes – ‘Dum, dum, da da dum, DUM!’ The kids are drawn to him like flies to a cowpat.

  The music bit drives me mad. So mad that I decided to time it. It was ninety seconds. Every goddamn ninety seconds. The only respite came when the well-groomed dad paid for his son to have a ride (sucker) and we got the full song.

  I messaged WIB.

  ‘I’m at Micro Soft if anyone fancies it.’

  There was a conspicuous silence, even though I could see after five minutes that both of them had read it.

  Eventually Sierra replied. ‘I would, only I’ve got my parents over for a late Easter lunch.’ I know for a fact that Sierra’s parents are dead.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Did it take them long to get there, what with the bank holiday traffic and having to travel from beyond the grave?’

  ‘OK, OK,’ she replied, ‘they’re not really here.’

  ‘I figured,’ I said, ‘unless you’ve dug them up, which would be a bit extreme just to get out of soft play.’

  ‘I just hate it there,’ she wrote. ‘No offence.’

  ‘I can’t go because of the germs,’ wrote Louise. ‘I read on Mumsnet that there are more bacteria on a single ball in one of those ball pits than on all the toilet seats in any public toilets combined.’

  That felt like a bit of a made-up fact to me.

  To pass the time I let myself be lulled into conversation with a man on Tinder called Stuart, who described himself as an ‘aspiring fiction writer’. It sounded a bit like he might work in IT and spend his evenings writing and illustrating his own comics (with felt-tip pens), but he wrote in nice long sentences and didn’t say tedious things like ‘what are you up to today?’ so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  I was just on the brink of thinking I could consider him for a date when he casually asked me to name my favourite sexual position. He volunteered the information that his is reverse cowgirl.

  Unmatch.

  I messaged another guy, who said he was a teacher, asking him to tell me a fun fact about himself that not many people knew, which I thought was relatively interesting as an opener.

  He replied with, ‘I have a massive cock.’

  A teacher? This man is basically responsible for the future of the human species. Perhaps not single-handedly, but it’s still worrying. I sent a screenshot to WIB.

  ‘Perhaps he meant to write “I am a massive cock”?’ suggested Sierra.

  Business idea: workshops for men to teach them how to interact with women on dating sites like normal human beings.

  Tuesday 3 April

  Given how much of half-term Flo spent asleep and how much I love my job (ha!) I decided not to bother taking time off work for the Easter holidays. I don’t have enough annual leave as it is so I might as well make the most of nursery being open all year round. I have no idea what I’m going to do when Jess goes to school next year – fork out hundreds of pounds to have her go to holiday clubs, I guess, to learn basic tennis skills or
whatever it is they do there.

  I bribed Flo to hoover the whole house this evening on the promise of a packet of Bounty ice creams next time I go shopping. She wasn’t impressed with the equipment provided.

  ‘Why do we have this shitty vacuum,’ she said, wrestling it up the stairs. ‘What is even the point of a vacuum cleaner if it’s so crap you have to actually pick stuff up off the floor with your hands and put it in the vacuum?’

  I said that if she wanted to forgo the Bounty ice creams that I’d happily put the money towards a new vacuum cleaner.

  She declined.

  Phoned the dentist. They can fit me in tomorrow morning at 9.05 a.m. Steve is off this week (Maggie told me she thinks he and his mother have gone on a cruise) so I’m hoping I might be able to sneak into work late without anyone noticing. Cleaned teeth thoroughly in case of errant Mini Eggs being stuck in the hole.

  Faith in hormone app restored as today it genuinely said that this week is a good time to schedule a dental appointment! Apparently, my currently high estrogen levels act to blunt pain, so fingers crossed.

  No more messages from Cam. Maybe I should have replied? What if he was genuine about wanting to see us? What if for the last ten years he’s been on the run or under witness protection or something?

  Wednesday 4 April

  Imagined encounters with customs where I have to explain why I’m smuggling something illegal into the country – 4. Polystyrene tiles on the dentist’s ceiling – 42.

  I read back what I wrote about Cam last night when I woke up and immediately hated myself. This what he DOES to me. He makes me question myself. I know he hasn’t been living under witness protection, of course he hasn’t, but there always seems to be that little part of me that wants to believe that he wants me, that he could be the man I want him to be, the father I want him to be, given enough time. And then when he isn’t he somehow makes me feel like it’s my fault, like I’ve expected too much or pushed him away.

  So why do I keep thinking about him?

  It makes me feel so weak and pathetic. I don’t want to be in that place again, but I’m scared. I deleted the message and his phone number while I was thinking straight (bold move – very impressed with self) – and went to the dentist instead.

  I always feel guilty when I go to the dentist even though I brush my teeth twice a day and floss when I remember (but really, who flosses every day?), and don’t use them to open beer bottles or anything. It’s a bit like when you see a police car or go through airport customs. You know you’ve not done anything wrong but what if you actually did pack an ornamental doll in national costume stuffed full of cocaine and you’ve just forgotten about it?

  I did my usual apologising for the state of my teeth, most of which have had fillings since my early twenties, and the dentist was very kind and said things about genetics and ‘otherwise good oral hygiene’. I didn’t tell her about my Jaffa Cake habit.

  She said that the centre part of the filling that was left was also wobbly, so she was going to take that out too to make sure I didn’t swallow it. I hadn’t even mentioned that I ate the first broken bit, mistaking it for a nacho, so perhaps I just looked like the sort of person who’d swallow bits of themselves by accident.

  I counted the ceiling tiles over and over again while she packed in some temporary filling and arranged a second appointment with the dental nurse.

  ‘Shall I say thirty minutes?’ the nurse asked her.

  The dentist made a face. ‘Best say forty,’ she said.

  Super.

  Parted with fifty-odd quid that I really cannot spare and made an appointment to go back again on 19 April. I will have to take Jess with me, but it was either that or wait until mid-May. As the dentist had laughed and said, ‘I’m not sure how long that will last!’ when she finished the temporary filling, I figured it was probably worth going sooner than later.

  Thursday 5 April

  Encounters involving whipped cream and a postman – 1. (1 too many.) Glasses of wine – 3, but with friends, so counts for less than if drunk alone.

  Made myself get up as soon as I woke up this morning because I didn’t want to lie in bed thinking about Cam. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and look in the fridge.

  I ate some ham from the packet and a finger full of hummus and threw away a couple of limp carrots. The postman walked up the path with a letter to sign for just as I was squirting cream into my mouth from the can. It was a bit awkward as we made eye contact through the kitchen window, mid-squirt.

  I decided not to draw attention to it.

  ‘Can you just sign here?’ he said, handing me the parcel and proffering his electronic box. I signed, trying to look casual.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He smiled and looked a bit uncomfortable, as though he wanted to say something.

  ‘Um …’ He pointed at my face. ‘You have a bit of cream, just there.’

  Good God.

  No Busy Beavers today as it’s the school holidays. I’ve never quite understood why playgroups shut at the very time that you need adult company the most. Even if I’m working, there is something about knowing that it’s the school holidays that makes you feel the urge to drink at lunchtime.

  Instead, I invited Lou and Sierra and various children (theirs, not randoms from the street), to come to our house for the afternoon, which Flo was very excited about.

  ‘They’re not allowed in my room,’ she said, gathering up a selection of lip balms and headphones from around the lounge, ‘and don’t give them my Oreos.’

  ‘They’re not actually your Oreos,’ I pointed out, ‘I think you’ll find that I bought them.’

  ‘But I asked for them,’ said Flo. ‘And what’s the point of you asking if there is anything I’d like if you’re just going to give them all to a load of kids?’

  ‘I haven’t given anyone anything!’ I said, feeling the need to defend myself.

  ‘I’m taking them to my room, just in case,’ she said, snatching the Oreos from the cupboard and stomping off upstairs.

  I was glad she’d made herself scarce, to be honest, as I wanted to talk to Sierra and Lou about Cam. I wasn’t able to show them the message, obviously, but I knew it from memory. They were both appalled.

  ‘It’s so casual,’ said Sierra, ‘as if you were only just chatting last week and he happens to be in town and he’s not the father of your firstborn child. What a dick.’

  ‘What should I do, though?’ I asked.

  ‘You shouldn’t do anything,’ said Sierra. ‘The guy is clearly a narcissist; he’s not interested in Flo, he’s barely interested in you – it sounds like he’s just testing you, seeing if he can still pull your strings.’

  ‘I’m worried, though, in case he can,’ I admitted.

  ‘Has he sent anything else?’ asked Lou.

  ‘No, just that one,’ I said.

  ‘Well, there you go, then,’ said Sierra. ‘He’s not exactly desperate to see you both, is he? I’d ignore him. You don’t need him coming in and messing things up for you.’

  They were right, of course.

  And yet …

  Although I knew, deep down, that he was no good, there was still that part of me that wanted him to message me again, a slither of me that craved the excitement. Plus, he is Flo’s father. He may not have exactly earned the title, but that blood link must mean something, surely?

  At five o’clock I made a big vat of pasta for the kids and glasses of wine for the grown-ups, because everyone knows that if you have guests, then wine o’clock comes forward from six to five. It’s just the rules.

  Message on Tinder this evening from a cabinetmaker called Robbie. I hadn’t been sure about him to start with as there was a picture of him snowboarding, and you know how I feel about winter sports, but also there was one where he had a small black-and-white kitten on one shoulder. Plus, he used the wine glass emoji in his profile.

  We got chatting about cats and the seaside and our favourite Friends episodes and
then after about half an hour he asked me out. Clearly I am irresistible.

  ‘I know it’s probably a bit forward,’ he said, ‘but I’ve had a few experiences of chatting to people for ages and then when we’ve met in person they’ve just not been the same. I think it’s difficult to know if you like someone unless you actually see each other, isn’t it?’

  I agreed.

  ‘I’m away next week for work,’ he said, ‘but how about after that? Maybe we could get a drink or dinner or something?’

  ‘That’s sounds good to me,’ I said.

  ‘Cool,’ he wrote. ‘I’ll message you when I’m back and we can set it up.’

  Would he, though? It seemed unlikely.

  Saturday 7 April

  Rained all day.

  Sunday 8 April

  Jaffa Cakes – 3. (Excellent given the circumstances.) Pebbles admired – 27,139. (Possible exaggeration.) Money swindled from me by toddler – £2.43.

  Cannot even talk about today. Two rainy weekends in a row – how did I cope when Ian and I actually lived together and I had to see my children all the time? It’s not even like I do anything especially exciting when they aren’t here – fold washing, do food shopping, piss about on the internet, drink wine, etc. – but apparently I need that time to function as a regular, sympathetic single parent because today I had no patience at all.

  I blame ‘shops’.

  ‘Shops’ has to be one of my least favourite games of all time. There is only so long I can pretend to get excited about buying pebbles and individual pieces of toilet paper – about ninety seconds, normally – but today even less. It is just so mind-numbingly tedious. People are quick to tell you all about the sleepless nights but why will no one say out loud how boring parenting can be?

  I wish I was more like @simple_dorset_life. She was pressing spring flowers today in a home-made press.