Lies We Tell Mothers: A True Story

by Suzy K Quinn

  When I opened my wardrobe, I saw clothing for a young girl who sat around on the beach, drinking beer. Who went to festivals and the pub. Who wore tight jeans. Whose stomach wasn’t all saggy and stretched.

  My old style was good for a twenty-something at a party with a reasonably slim figure.

  I was no longer a twenty-something at a party. Or reasonably slim.

  A remarkable ageing process had taken place. Something had happened to my body and face. The stress of a newborn had drained the youth out of me and I had suddenly plunged into middle age. My droopier, fatter body needed comfortable, forgiving clothes – absolutely no squeezed waistlines.

  Lycra and neon were no longer my friends (if they ever had been). Oh no. They only highlighted my new, lumpier middle. Think stretched, unflattering and mutton.

  I needed to get with the programme. Dress the body I had, not the one I wanted.

  Subtle, mature, stylish, grown up – that was the thing. Clothes that made me look and feel well groomed. That didn’t cling to my middle.

  I needed a Pretty Woman moment.

  Cue montage.

  Flinging open my wardrobe, I made an honest assessment of my clothes.

  I decided that most, if not all, of my pre-pregnancy clothing had to go. I’d been waiting for my body to ‘ping’ back into shape, but that clearly was not going to happen, no matter how much weight I lost.

  Anything tight and polyester went straight in the charity bag, as did almost everything from H&M, Topshop, New Look and Forever 21.

  Skinny jeans I didn’t have a hope in hell of doing up – into the bag. Teeny-tiny lacy knickers that only served to highlight my now-roomier bottom, be gone. Bye-bye, novelty zig-zag, hot-pink and zebra-striped pull-up socks. Away with you.

  I’d had fun wearing that stuff. But it wasn’t who I was any more. And it made me look really unattractive.

  If someone had told me that I’d throw this stuff out when I became a mother, I would have shouted at them: ‘No, I won’t! Why can’t a mum have fun, youthful clothing? Why do we have to fit into a sensible mould? Why can’t we be whoever we want, just because we have kids?’

  I still think that.

  I still believe people should be able to wear whatever they like. But in my case, those brightly coloured party clothes looked really bad on me.

  I filled two huge bin bags for the charity shop, then assessed my now almost empty wardrobe. Hangers dangled in empty space, inviting a whole new life.

  For a long time, I’d been hiding my body under leggings, Demi’s big sweatshirts and an army jacket.

  It was the look of someone trapped between two worlds. Someone refusing to accept that life had changed. Someone having an internal crisis, living in a world of turmoil.

  I didn’t want to look like that any more.

  The trouble was I had no idea where to get new clothes. If Topshop and H&M were off limits, where else was there?

  I would not – repeat, not – shop in Laura Ashley.

  Good advice was needed.

  I asked my maternity-mum friends, who all looked respectable yet still pretty cool, where they bought clothes.

  They recommended Gap, Zara, Next, Boden and very occasionally Marks & Spencer.

  I’d never bothered with these shops before, thinking of them as for older women.

  Time for a rethink.

  I hit town with Lexi strapped tightly into the buggy and bought myself some comfortable boyfriend-style jeans, Converse, asymmetric sweatshirts and pastel-coloured hoodies.

  The standard modern-mother wardrobe. Boring, right? But actually it was flattering and made me feel good when I looked in the mirror.

  I bought a few ‘going out’ items too, but nothing as flashy and synthetic as before. Nice, loose, stylish dresses made of grown-up fabrics like silk and wool.

  When I got home, I put on a new ‘daytime casual’ outfit – flattering peddle-pusher jeans, a striped top and white Converse.

  The clothes felt clean and comfortable, like just-laundered cotton.

  When I looked in the mirror, I saw a well-dressed adult. A parent, but a young one.

  I felt like a new person.

  Excellent.

  Next, I assessed my hair, which had been pulled back into an ‘I can’t be bothered to do my hair today’ ponytail since Lexi came along. The home-dyed blonde streaks had long since grown out, leaving a boring mid-brown colour and orangey-blonde ends.

  It was time to find something easier to maintain. Shorter and less teenage paintbox.

  The hairdresser suggested wavy, shoulder-length layers.

  Lovely.

  After two and a half hours in the salon chair, I emerged with shiny, chocolate-brown hair in chin-length layers and felt SO much better. That haircut had been long overdue. And I didn’t even need to blow-dry it – I could just let it air-dry.

  Perfect.

  Lastly, I addressed my make-up.

  I hadn’t worn make-up for ages, except to daub Miss Selfridge ‘neon blast!’ on Lexi for fun face-painting. Everything in my make-up kit was either unsuitable for day wear or dry, crumbly and out of date.

  That Va Va Voom mascara and blunt kohl eyeliner must have been at least five years old. And those ‘of the moment’ unusual-coloured eyeshadows from Primark – had I ever worn those?

  I threw everything out and bought a very simple Clinique make-up set: one mascara, some sheer lip gel, a powder foundation and an eyeliner.

  Minimal and stylish.

  Quality over quantity.

  This felt better.

  Me, pictured here looking less hobo-like for one of my author photos. I hate having pictures taken. I either look smug or constipated.

  Slowly but surely, I was finally growing up. More slowly than surely. But it was happening.

  #23 LIE – YOU SHOULD NEVER BRIBE YOUR CHILDREN

  So it was goodbye big city, hello country life.

  Eventually.

  The house sale, mortgage, etc. was absolutely not a straightforward process (it never is, is it?) but in the end these were minor irritations. (Solicitors are soooo sloooow! Doing EVERYTHING by post. Get with the times, guys!)

  We bought two huge dehumidifiers while we waited for solicitors to send a few letters back and forth at a snail’s pace (very possibly by horse and cart).

  The dehumidifiers made the air desert-dry and gave us itchy eyes and weird black snot, but at least the air wasn’t damp and Lexi’s chest seemed to be improving as we waited.

  And waited.

  When the house sale finally went through, Lexi was one and a half years old and fully able to unpack the boxes we’d already packed.

  Being a toddler, she was also sensitive to criticism and threw a shit fit if we gently suggested she ‘STOP UNPACKING THOSE BOXES, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! I’VE TOLD YOU A HUNDRED TIMES!’

  After many hours of packing and repacking boxes, we finally got everything into the removal van and set off for our new home in the countryside.

  We started early on moving day, with the movers arriving at 6 a.m., and had the keys to our new property by 8 a.m.

  Once the boxes were unloaded, Demi and I ran around the property like lunatics, arms out and laughing at all the space.

  Lexi imitated us, stumbling around on her little toddler legs and babbling, ‘House, house!’

  Perhaps we should have replaced those swirly pink carpets, wood-chip wallpaper and that dark 1970s kitchen before we moved in. Certainly, we should have removed those weird bathroom tiles featuring the semi-naked Grecian goddess. Definitely we should have taken out the 1970s gas fire with its faux flames.

  But it was still a whole house, and we couldn’t believe it was ours.

  The owner had (very kindly) left Lexi a giant 1970s baby doll with sinister, unsmiling eyes, a grey face and a stained cloth body. Demi and I were terrified by it, but not Lexi. She loved that doll and immediately placed it in the largest bedroom.

  ‘My ’oom!’ Lexi declared.


  ‘No, Lexi,’ I said. ‘That’s Mummy and Daddy’s ’oom. It’s the biggest one with the nicest view.’

  Lexi’s smile faded. She locked eyes with me. ‘My ’oom, Mummy.’

  ‘No, Lexi. Your ’oom is this slightly darker, smaller one at the back of the house.’

  ‘No, Mummy. This my ’oom.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ I bargained. ‘How about Daddy and I have this room, and you have a strawberry yoghurt?’

  ‘OK!’ said Lexi, delighted.

  The little fool.

  I took Lexi downstairs for her strawberry-yoghurt bribe, but unfortunately I’d made an oversight. The spoons were packed away somewhere.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I told Lexi. ‘We’ll go out for a brunch-breakfast thing. A fun, treat breakfast. An adventure!’

  I knew there was no McDonald’s in this backwater village, but I was confident there would be some kind of cafe. Possibly a twee tea shop offering a fried breakfast with locally produced sausages.

  Kids like sausages.

  We left Demi to unpack and headed to the High Street (villages never really have high streets with real high-street shops on them – but, essentially, the place where the post office is), hoping to find a fresh chocolate croissant and perhaps even eggs Benedict for a special ‘just moved house’ breakfast.

  We did not find these things.

  There was only one cafe and it didn’t do eggs Benedict. Only white-bread toast and scones.

  And it was closed.

  ‘OK, Lexi,’ I said in my best ‘I’m coping just fine, darling, and don’t ask for that bedroom back!’ voice. ‘We’ll have to resort to plan B. That little newsagents over there. I’m sure it will sell a sausage roll or similar treat.’

  The newsagents sold four things: newspapers, chocolate, crisps and (rather obscurely) sticks of rock.

  Lexi was hungry. I was hungry.

  It started to rain.

  Everything was starting to feel ominous, like maybe moving here was a very big mistake.

  I went a bit mad and let Lexi choose whatever crisps and chocolate she wanted for breakfast.

  ‘Breakfast?’ Lexi asked incredulously in a voice that suggested Mummy wasn’t concentrating again.

  The counter lady raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ I said gaily. ‘A special day. Ah, ha ha ha! What have you picked there? Wotsits? Oh for the love of . . . Couldn’t you at least pick one with something made from potatoes? And what’s that? A solid-chocolate Twirl bar? Would you prefer something with peanuts?’

  But the threat of that smaller, darker bedroom loomed large.

  I bought Lexi packets of Wotsits, Skips and Chipsticks for breakfast, complemented with a Mars bar. I bought myself something similar.

  We pushed on in the rain, heads bowed and stuffing our faces with bright-orange crisps, when I noticed something wonderful – a library. A lovely, bright, warm library, right on the High Street. Our salvation from the rain. AND it was open.

  I’ve always liked libraries. You have to if you’re a writer. It’s the law.

  The library had dark, tinted windows, but I was quite sure inside would be full of colourful books and bright cushions.

  ‘Quick, Lexi,’ I instructed, parking up the buggy next to the panoramic, twinkling black window. ‘Eat your Wotsits. Eat your chocolate. Hurry up! Then we can get inside in the dry.’

  I shovelled chocolate and bright-orange crisps into her mouth and mine.

  Then we entered the library.

  Inside was a large mother-and-toddler group sitting on bright cushions, holding colourful books for their children right by the tinted window. Just as I’d imagined.

  They were all staring at us.

  I realised the glass, which was opaque from the outside, was see-through from the inside.

  These mothers had just witnessed me ramming crisps and chocolate into my child’s face at speed with ‘hurry up, hurry up!’ motions at nine in the morning. And not even organic potato crisps. Wotsits and Skips.

  I gave a tentative smile, suddenly aware of cheesy Wotsits powder all over our faces.

  One of the women said, ‘Would you like to join us? We’re singing “Little Peter Rabbit Had a Fly Upon His Nose”.’

  Lexi clapped her Wotsits-stained hands together in delight.

  ‘We’ve just moved house and we don’t have cutlery,’ I said obscurely, trying to wipe away orange cheese powder.

  The kindly mum looked confused. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘You don’t need cutlery to sing.’

  We joined the mums, and they were lovely – not once cross-examining me about our weird snack/breakfast/brunch arrangements.

  Perhaps this house move wasn’t such a bad decision after all. There was a lot of love here. And wasn’t that missing in the city? Love?

  Brighton had all the vegan restaurants, organic produce and frozen yoghurt we could ever want, but no one in the big city (apart from our friends, obviously) knew our names.

  Within half an hour of living in this village, five women were smiling and talking to us. They knew our names AND our slovenly breakfast habits.

  After a morning of nursery-rhyme favourites, Lexi and I headed back to our new home.

  Demi had unpacked everything and put furniture in the right places. He’d found the cutlery and ordered takeaway pizza for lunch. He’d put a little polka-dot blanket over the sinister baby doll in an effort to soften its evil appearance.

  We sat on the swirly pink carpet, ate pizza and talked about how things were changing. How things had changed. Who’d have thought? All of us, out in the countryside without a McDonald’s. And yet we seemed to be enjoying ourselves.

  (Demi: ‘I didn’t enjoy that lunchtime much actually, because Domino’s sent pepperoni pizza instead of Mighty Meaty. Essentially, “mini meaty”. It made me feel unloved and unimportant, but I’m over it now.’)

  Over the next few weeks, we enjoyed our big palace of a house and its many, many windows. We loved our big kitchen and garden. I’d got a new wardrobe and haircut and no longer looked like a hobo. However, city to countryside is a BIG change.

  Metaphorically, we’d gone from a 3 a.m. boozy party to a nice cup of tea with grandma. A packed-out gig at Wembley to a lone child blowing notes through a recorder. Glastonbury to Glyndebourne.

  Despite evidence to the contrary (i.e. our tired and haggard faces, 9 p.m. bedtime and new family home), we still saw ourselves as somewhat dynamic. Exciting. Like people in a Pepsi MAX advert, albeit slightly grumpier, less energetic versions.

  Did we really fit into this sleepy family place with its mooing cows and three pubs – all of which closed at 11 p.m.?

  We had doubts.

  Take the shopping situation, for example.

  A few weeks after the move, Demi and I decided to sit in the garden and drink wine. It had been a long day and Lexi had screamed a lot.

  Demi popped to the local supermarket to pick up the usual fridge-fillers (deli snacks and alcohol) and came back white-faced.

  ‘There’s no guacamole,’ he said. ‘And they’ve sold out of hummus.’

  There was worse to come.

  ‘The single drinks fridge was broken,’ said Demi. ‘I’ve had to buy warm beer and Prosecco.’

  This was appalling news.

  ‘What kind of place sells warm Prosecco?’ I demanded. ‘We’re not animals.’

  Then there was the lack of coffee. The only place in the village selling coffee was the aforementioned little tea room that catered for the cake-and-sandwich retirement crowd. The coffee was all right but it certainly wasn’t the freshly ground flat whites we craved.

  And if we wanted a gluten-free lunch, well, forget it.

  Things were unsettling for Lexi too. We’d arranged for my mum to look after her for one day a week, but that wasn’t enough to keep the wheels of commerce turning in our house.

  Lexi having a great time with Nana.

  (Demi: ‘Su’s parents were and still are amazing with the k
ids. Absolutely amazing. Thank you, Don and Jean.’)

  Now Lexi was walking and talking and approaching two years of age, we felt she was ready for nursery. The local nursery looked lovely, with a big green garden, and wellies filled with flowers decorating the gate. Still, this was a big change. No more Italian childminder to feed her pasta. No more one-on-one childcare in a home environment.

  Lexi clung to our legs and screamed on her first day at nursery.

  ‘Want home,’ she said. ‘Want Herby.’ (Herby was her funny toddler friend from Brighton who bit people.) ‘Want Nana. Want Mummy.’

  Next to the nice, cosy childminder’s house, the nursery did feel large and foreboding. Full of chattering children. It all seemed a bit ‘law of the jungle’, ‘survival of the fittest’, ‘grab the toy you want and fight off the other children’. But I really did feel Lexi was ready, and it was time for her to grow with this experience. Just like we were growing.

  Still, Lexi had a very, very big cry and clung to us mightily.

  The nursery staff assured me that children play their parents like fiddles, pulling on heartstrings to get what they want.

  ‘She’s picking up on your unease,’ they said. ‘Once you settle, she will too.’

  And we were unsettled. Moving house isn’t easy and this new place was totally different.

  #24 LIE – THEY’RE HAPPIER WHEN THEY CAN RUN AROUND

  Over the next six months, Lexi settled into nursery. She no longer screamed her head off at drop-off and seemed generally content, chattering about her new friends and the various craft activities that gave us piles of glittery, scribbly paper to recycle each week.

  Our daughter was approaching the terrible twos, walking and talking.

  And she wanted to walk everywhere.

  People said this would make Lexi happier. This was not the case.

  Trying to get Lexi places was now a nightmare. If I strapped her into the buggy, she’d buck like an angry bull, crying, twisting, wriggling and sometimes actually getting loose. Public transport was bad too. Within minutes on a bus or train, Lexi would be howling, ‘Want off, want OFF!’ and hitting the nice smiling old ladies who tried to comfort and distract her.