by Jo Middleton
‘I was there the other week, though, when you stood up to Cassie over the Fruit Shoot scandal,’ she said. ‘It was incredible! I would never have dared to do something like that.’
I laughed, remembering the Fruit Shoot slam dunk. ‘To be honest I don’t think I would have dared if I had stopped to think about it,’ I said. ‘I certainly wouldn’t have done it six months ago. I don’t know if it’s age, or making friends, but there is definitely a feeling creeping up on me of starting to care less about what other people think. It’s pretty nice.’
Lou walked past then with the plate of biscuits. I stopped her and took a second chocolate digestive.
I was just finishing packing everything away when Dylan came up the stairs.
‘That was amazing!’ he said. ‘Loads of the mums came and said hello as they left and told me how much they loved the shop, including a couple who’d never been in before. One woman asked about using the room for her mindfulness classes and I took £43.92! This was such a great idea, Frankie, thank you.’
I was very relieved. I’d been a bit worried in case the noise of more than a dozen small children squabbling over a box of Duplo would put off customers.
‘We had loads more people than I expected,’ I said. ‘It turns out parents really do get desperate in the summer holidays.’
Friday 3 August
Flo came home today. I went with Ian and Jess to meet her from the bus station. I was really nervous in case she’d had a terrible time and the trip was referred back to, out of context, for years to come. I could picture it now – ‘You remember when you sent me all the way to the South of France, Mum, to do beach games because you couldn’t be bothered to look after me?’
It would be like that one time, when she was four, that she went to bed in her school uniform and kept it on for school the next day. I was on my own with her, not long after Cam had left for good, and had the worst stomach bug I have ever had. I picked her up from school just before it set in and then spent the next twelve hours in the bathroom. I had to sit on the toilet and be sick in the bath at the same time as things happened at the other end. In between times I lay on the floor, drifting in and out of sleep and crying quietly to myself.
We’ve gone over it so many times, but in Flo’s head I think I was just flipping through a magazine or something, too lazy to get her into her pyjamas.
We watched the bus pull into the depot and as soon as I saw her coming down the steps I knew it wasn’t going to be a school uniform scenario. She was beaming. Her hair had blonde flecks from the sea and the sunshine and she was covered in freckles. She bounded down the steps and ran over and hugged us all.
‘How was it?’ I asked.
‘Amazing!’ she said. ‘I need to go and get my bags and say goodbye to everyone and then I’ll be back.’
We watched as she hugged a succession of girls and boys, all of whom looked as full of life as she did, and then she bounced back, dragging her suitcase and with her sleeping bag under one arm. Ian packed everything into the boot and took her and Jess with him. I watched them drive off and waved until I couldn’t see them any more, before getting into my car and driving home.
Drank a tumbler of well-earned summer holiday prosecco and watched First Dates. I think I must be a bit of a closet romantic, as I swear I just smile the whole way through. Sometimes I cry at the end when they say how much they like each other and agree to go on a second date.
Saturday 4 August
Lay in bed this morning doing a fantasy clothes shop for if I ever win the lottery. What is this current obsession with jumpsuits? I like the theory – minimal thought and effort, no concern over clashing top/bottom – but I’m not sure my bladder is strong enough for getting to the toilet and then remembering you have to basically undress yourself entirely before you can sit down.
Checked, and @simple_dorset_life had been busy making her own croissants. ‘Pastry isn’t quick to make for croissants,’ said the caption, ‘but there’s something very soothing about the process of rolling and folding and creating something from scratch. I try to feel every sensation – the softness of the dough, the cold, slippery butter. It roots me and connects me to myself in a purposeful way. And of course there’s the croissant at the end! They’re a special treat, served with fresh berries, organic natural yogurt and an invigorating mug of nettle tea.’
I felt so inspired that I went to the Co-op, bought the papers and a four-pack of pain au chocolat and took them back to bed with an ‘invigorating mug of cheap instant coffee’. Ate all four pain au chocolat. Spent quite a long time trying to brush flaky pastry off the sheets.
Sunday 5 August
Girls back at four, so spent the time until then doing all the jobs I was too exhausted to do last week, like putting away the sea of clean washing on my bedroom floor, chiselling old toothpaste off the sink, washing my own hair, etc.
Sunday 12 August
This last week in summary (approx.):
Number of times I’ve said ‘you might want to think about getting up now, Flo, it is the afternoon’ – 39
Half-full abandoned cups and beakers collected from around the house and emptied into sink – 18
Hours spent at the park – 9
Hours spent at the park wishing I was somewhere else – 8.5 (Had a nice half hour on Tuesday when Jess got engrossed in the sandpit and I had a coffee with no interruptions)
Unnecessary FaceTime conversations with Mum and Dad because Jess was insistent she wanted to show them ‘something important’ and then ran off after two minutes – 5
Raisins picked up off the floor – 291
Episodes of Peppa Pig drawn into watching when I was meant to be using the time to do Useful Things Around The House – 8 (That show is hypnotic)
Bottles of summer holiday prosecco drunk – 1. OK 1.5. Oh, all right, 2
Jaffa Cakes – 19 (Best not to think about it)
Soft play sessions – 0
Soft play sessions considered and discounted in favour of maintaining own sanity – many
Number of times Jess has said ‘Mummy, watch me! Are you watching? Watch me, Mummy!’ – Christ, I don’t even know
The highlight was bookshop group on Thursday – fourteen families this week. If this carries on, we may have to put a cap on numbers or get people to book or something.
Tuesday 14 August
Because it has been so sunny I have finally caught up with all the washing and every single thing in the house is clean. It will only last for today, obviously, because then the things we’re wearing now will need washing, but it was a triumphant moment nonetheless.
I thought it would mean that I could finally pair up Jess’s socks, so I got her keen on the idea of playing a sorting game. We got everything out of the sock drawer and spread them out on the floor, then we took turns finding pairs and rolling them into balls.
I think the fact that I was genuinely excited about this shows how low my threshold for summer holiday fun is already, and it’s only 14 August.
At the end of the game we had seventeen random odd socks left. How is this even possible? Where were the other seventeen? I know people make a thing about odd socks, but I kind of assumed that was just to do with getting your laundry organised and that I’d just never in my life before been that on it sock-wise, I didn’t realise socks actually disappeared.
Wednesday 15 August
Finally got Jess to sleep tonight after what felt like weeks of toing and froing, fetching drinks, straightening sheets, rearranging ponies and generally trying not to scream, ‘Please just go to sleep before I smother you with this pillow!’ I love the summer but God, it doesn’t half screw around with bedtimes. I do feel for Jess. How exactly is it fair that you have to go to bed when it’s still broad daylight and you can hear other children playing out in their gardens in paddling pools?
On the other hand, how is it fair that I have my drinking time cut into when I can clearly hear other parents outside in their gardens ope
ning bottles of beer and enjoying themselves?
Flo was in her room, FaceTiming someone loudly. I tapped on her door and asked her to keep it down a little bit. I was tempted to stand and listen for a while – she probably thinks that’s something I’d do – but honestly, have you listened to teenagers talk to each other lately? It’s boring. Plus I only understand every third word or so. It’s all memes and people being savage and getting wrecked, only not in the good old-fashioned way, with a litre of cheap cider in a park – the new way seems to just mean being the victim of a particularly savage meme or something.
Anyway, it’s dull, and I’d rather be downstairs on my own, drinking wine and eating chocolate raisins like they are a health food.
(Question: why, during the day, will Jess go out of her way to avoid letting a drop of water pass her lips but as soon as it’s bedtime she’s dying of a raving thirst and I absolutely must fetch her a drink immediately?)
Thursday 16 August
Things I like about our splinter Busy Beavers group compared to regular scary Busy Beavers:
The room is actually nice and welcoming and doesn’t make you feel like you’ve just turned up somewhere to give blood
We have blackcurrant squash for the kids and don’t pretend that we only ever give our children water or milk
No one looks at you in a judgemental way when you have a third chocolate digestive
We talk about things that really matter, like relationships, pelvic floors, Love Island, etc., etc., rather than stupid things like should we be moving into the catchment area for a good college for our toddlers now, just to be prepared, or how difficult it is to find a decent violin teacher
Cassie isn’t there (Although wondering if Cassie will be able to show her face again at BB in September after the Aldi papping incident)
After we’ve cleaned up, Dylan makes me a coffee and lets me hang around downstairs with the books while he tells me all the insider gossip from the world of bookselling
Who am I kidding? Of course Cassie will be at Busy Beavers. She is going to dine out on the outrage for months.
Sunday 19 August
Instagram post today that made me feel most inadequate: New Zealand’s Minister for Women cycled to hospital this afternoon to give birth. Apparently, it was ‘mostly downhill’ but still, that’s a bit hardcore, isn’t it? Bike seats aren’t kind on the lady bits at the best of times, but if your cervix is partly dilated I can’t imagine that’s exactly going to help matters. Would the baby’s head get bumped? Would the bike seat fall in? (Probably should have done more research on how labour works before having two children.)
Messaged WIB.
‘Have you seen the New Zealand woman who’s just cycled to the hospital to give birth?’ I asked. ‘The only way Ian could get me to even walk to the car was by telling me there was a bacon sandwich in the front seat.’
I thought about it and followed it up.
‘I had a lot of pork cravings,’ I said, ‘don’t judge me.’
‘I read about it,’ said Sierra, ‘but she was on her way to be induced, so it’s not like she was pedalling through contractions or anything.’
Oh well. In that case, sign me up! Christ.
Tuesday 21 August
Flo came into the kitchen today as Jess and I were making cakes.
‘When are we going to throw that bowl away?’ she asked, nodding at the plastic mixing bowl I was using to cream the butter and sugar.
‘What do you mean, throw it away?’ I asked. ‘This bowl is really useful.’
‘It’s a bit gross, though, that it’s the bowl we are sick in but then you use it for cakes,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that’s normal.’
‘I wash it out in between,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s not like I just tip away the puke and immediately crack in a couple of eggs.’
‘Still,’ said Flo, ‘it’s a bit rank.’
I tried to remember how long we’d had the cake/sick bowl. At least ten years. Maybe I’d had it before Flo was born? Somehow it had become the designated sick bowl, but also it was a useful size for baking. Was it rank? Maybe. But also it feels like a part of our family heritage. Like other people have family photos or war medals, only we have a cake/sick bowl. I bet @simple_dorset_life doesn’t have a cake/sick bowl. She probably has a cupboard full of charming, mismatched vintage mixing bowls that she’s collected from flea markets in small French villages.
‘You don’t have to eat the cake,’ I pointed out.
‘I’ll eat the cake,’ said Flo. ‘I’m just saying it’s rank.’
(Dilemma: I really want to ask WIB about the cake/sick bowl to check that it is something other families do, but what if it’s not?)
Friday 24 August
Ian picked the girls up this morning to take them to his mum’s for a week. I spent the rest of the day lying on the sofa in a kind of semi-coma, eating Jaffa Cakes, drinking tea and watching Homes Under The Hammer.
Really must start job-hunting.
Saturday 25 August
Felt slightly more human this morning. Found three potential jobs to apply for. One working from home for twenty hours a week doing some admin for a local disability charity, one doing marketing for a dog rescue centre, and one as an editorial assistant at the Dorset Echo. Not sure what editorial assistants do exactly, but working for a paper sounds like it could be quite exciting.
The dog rescue application asked me to ‘give an example of a time when you have experienced conflict in the workplace and how you managed it.’
I was tempted to tell them about Steve and how I once told him that I ‘tolerated him at best’ while imagining hitting him with his own stapler but I figured that probably wasn’t the relaxed, compassionate sort of vibe that the dogs would appreciate.
Sent off all three. Very pleased with myself.
Sunday 26 August
Distinctly bored by teatime when the girls normally come home from Ian’s. Tried FaceTiming them, but no answer. I went for a walk down to the beach, thinking I might treat myself to a gelato from the nice place by the pier, but then remembered it was half past seven on a Sunday.
Made do with a Double Decker from the Co-op.
Monday 29 August
Redownloaded Tinder this afternoon, anticipating a fresh batch of potential suitors from over the summer. There were quite a few new men, many of whom had clearly been busy on fishing trips, climbing mountains, etc., during August, and were showing off their achievements accordingly.
I did have a message that was a couple of weeks old, from a guy called Dom. He’s forty-one and a doctor. He used my actual name rather than just starting the message with ‘Hey, gorgeous’ and made a reference to something I’d said in my profile about the Brontë sisters, so clearly he has been reading the same ‘how to write a good first Tinder message’ articles as I did earlier in the year.
I replied.
Less than ten minutes later he replied again.
Very promising.
We chatted for a while about books and TV shows we liked and controversial issues like whether the cream or jam goes first on a scone. (Cream first, obviously.) I nearly confided in him about the family cake/sick bowl but thought better of it.
I sent a picture to WIB.
‘Wow!’ said Lou. ‘He looks dishy!’ Sometimes I feel like Lou was born in the wrong era.
‘Is he really a doctor?’ asked Sierra. ‘Or has he just posted that picture of himself with a stethoscope round his neck to make himself look more fuckable?’
‘Well, he says he’s a doctor,’ I said.
‘Of course he says he is,’ replied Sierra, ‘but if he’s got kids he could just have picked out something from the Fisher-Price medical kit.’
Tuesday 28 August
Applied for four more jobs this morning, all part-time and badly paid. Is this the choice you have to make? If you don’t want, or aren’t able, to be at someone’s beck and call five days a week, are you destined to work forever for £10.25 an
hour?
Message from Dom: ‘This might be a bit forward,’ he said, ‘but are you free on Thursday night?’
I felt a little flutter of excitement. Clearly, he was keen. The girls aren’t back until Friday afternoon, so I was free. I left it a while to reply though so I didn’t seem desperate.
Seven minutes later I replied.
‘Yes, I could be,’ I said. So cool.
‘Great!’ he said. ‘Here’s my address, do you want to come over about 8 p.m.?’ I said I thought it might be better to meet somewhere neutral for a first date – safety first and all that.
‘Oh, you have to come here,’ he said, ‘otherwise it won’t work.’
‘What won’t work?’ I asked.
‘I want you to fuck my housemate,’ he said.
I looked at the screen for a bit and scratched my head. As in ‘so that he could watch’, maybe? Out of pity? Either way it wasn’t exactly my dream first-date scenario.
‘Um, what?’ I said. ‘You want me to fuck your housemate? Is that a joke I don’t get?’
‘No,’ he wrote back, ‘he wants to break up with his girlfriend and we thought if she walked in on him shagging you, that would be a good way to give her the message.’
This was just so awful on so many levels that I didn’t know where to start.
‘Can he not just text her?’ I said, possibly missing the point.
‘Nah, she’s really clingy and annoying,’ he replied. ‘It needs to be something conclusive.’
I had another look at the stethoscope. Perhaps there was a touch of Fisher-Price about it.
