Lies We Tell Mothers: A True Story

by Suzy K Quinn

  I thanked our lovely new friends for inviting us and told them we’d be delighted to come, while privately dreading it.

  Since we didn’t have a stick of camping equipment, I took Lexi and Laya to the big Go Outdoors store to browse tents and so forth.

  My, camping equipment was expensive these days. Did we really need a tent that size? It was only one weekend. Surely such a short trip didn’t necessitate hundreds of pounds on camping gear? No wonder my parents bought us those thin sleeping bags – the downy ones cost a fortune.

  However, I did splash out on outdoor clothes for the kids, based on my mother’s advice: ‘There’s no wrong weather, only wrong clothes.’ Nice warm fleeces and waterproof/windproof coats were lavished on the children and I made absolutely sure they were appreciated.

  ‘When I was a child, coats were thin,’ I informed the kids. ‘This waterproof, Gore-Tex technology didn’t exist in those days. If it was windy, you got cold. If it rained, you got wet.’

  ‘We need beds too, Mummy,’ Lexi instructed. ‘And a cooker. And sleeping bags. And chairs.’

  ‘We do not need chairs,’ I insisted. ‘We’ll have to load them and unload them and it’s only one weekend. We can just sit on the floor.’

  ‘Grass, Mummy,’ Lexi corrected. ‘We’ll be sitting on grass. A floor is inside.’

  Little smart-arse.

  After mentally totting up the cost of a very basic set-up, I worked out it was the same as staying in a really nice hotel for two nights. And we were only talking about a basic camping set-up – anything luxurious like an electric cool box or comfortable beds and cooking equipment would be a waste of money for one weekend.

  ‘We’re going home, kids,’ I announced. ‘There’s no point buying and storing all this stuff for one trip. You might not even like camping. We’ll just borrow Nana and Grandad’s 1970s camping gear.’

  Lexi’s fingers lingered over a shiny new pink-dinosaur sleeping bag.

  ‘Can’t we at least get new bedding?’

  ‘It’ll just take up space in the loft,’ I insisted. ‘We’ll probably never go camping again when you realise how horrendous it is.’

  We drove to my parents’ house, where I borrowed some 1970s camp beds and dusted off the old orange sleeping bags my sister and I had used as kids. Unfortunately, the old frame tent had rotted to death some years previously.

  Reluctantly, we bought a new family tent. I was certain we’d have to get rid of it when the kids realised being outdoors all day and night is cold and miserable.

  I tried to get our garden chairs in the back of the car but they wouldn’t fit.

  Never mind. As I’d told Lexi, we didn’t need chairs. We’d just sit on the floor (grass).

  After a stressful pack-up with lots of shouting about what was and wasn’t important (‘we NEED THREE crates of beer, kids. Your books will have to stay at home. And no, we don’t have a cooker, I’ve just packed sandwiches and breakfast cereal’), we headed into the Norfolk countryside.

  ‘We’ll arrive at gone 6 p.m.,’ I said as we chugged through country lanes, the bedding obscuring the back window. ‘Better crack on with all the setting-up. Otherwise we won’t be finished before dark.’

  ‘It gets dark at 9 p.m.,’ said Demi. ‘It’s not going to take three hours to set up.’

  ‘It might take longer than three hours!’ I said, my hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘My parents took all day once and still didn’t get the inner tent set up before bedtime. My sister and I had to sleep on bare grass next to the big blue gas bottles.’

  ‘Half an hour, maximum,’ said Demi. ‘Tents have fibreglass poles these days. It’s easy.’

  I didn’t say anything, but quietly I believed him to be a fool.

  When we arrived at the campsite, our friends had already unpacked and set up. There was a mountain of beer crates near the unlit campfire – I’m talking maybe ten cases. It was heartening to know that everyone else was just as worried about running out of beer as we were.

  ‘Would you like a beer?’ someone offered. ‘We’ve got ten crates between us. Better not risk running out! Ha ha ha!’

  Ha ha, indeed.

  The kids piled out of the car and started running around with their friends while Demi and I unpacked and argued.

  Demi and I both feel ourselves to be leaders, but Demi is wrong – I’m the real leader, despite all his army experience.

  It took about half an hour to get everything out of the car.

  Now on to the serious business of setting up the family tent. I pictured Demi and me still hammering in pegs as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. However, Demi was right again – the tent took all of ten minutes to set up.

  While we were pitching the tent, the kids whined, ‘We’re so cold, Mummy. It’s really windy.’

  It was true – the wind was picking up and ominous clouds gathered.

  ‘Zip up your Gore-Tex and count yourself lucky,’ I snapped. ‘We only had thin duffel coats in our day.’

  With the tent set up, Demi and I sat around the campfire with the other parents. A light rain started, but nothing to complain about – not when you’re under an event shelter with a beer in one hand and a sausage in the other.

  The kids complained though. We’re getting soaked (they weren’t). It’s freezing (it wasn’t).

  I now understood the necessity for marshmallows on camping trips. You throw them at the children whenever they moan.

  As the evening wore on and we fired up the late-night barbecue, I realised something profound. We were having a nice time. It was great being outdoors. And a campfire with marshmallows and sausages . . .

  Another beer? Sure! How many are left now, ninety-five?

  The kids were complaining a lot, of course. As the sun set, it did get quite chilly. The kids were also moaning about sitting on the damp grass while everyone else lorded it above us in their fancy camping chairs.

  Come on, kids – toughen up. This is good fun! We’ll bring chairs next time.

  Did I say next time?

  Yes, I think I did.

  On the face of it, camping means paying quite a bit of money to live like a homeless person. But actually, it was a great excuse for getting together with a load of other adults and drinking beer around a campfire. My, it was fun.

  Stop complaining, Lexi and Laya. Kids love being outdoors.

  When we got home, I went right out and bought a load of good camping equipment – thermal sleeping bags, one of those self-inflating mattresses, really fancy chairs, wine-glass holders that stake into the ground, camping wine glasses – the whole lot.

  It cost quite a bit. More than a few nights in a fancy hotel. But we couldn’t stay in fancy hotels any more anyway, so what the hey.

  Fun camping trip with Lexi and other beautiful children. Note the giant marshmallow. Just excessive.

  #32 LIE – WHEN THEY START SCHOOL, YOU’LL GET YOUR LIFE BACK

  All of a sudden, it was time for Lexi to start school.

  We couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

  Parents of older kids always say, ‘Oh, you’ll blink and she’ll be at school. You just wait, it goes so quickly.’

  I ignored them, stuck in my own seemingly unending newborn hell. This baby stage will never end! NEVER. It is one long sleepless-night misery and doesn’t go quickly.

  Yet suddenly, Lexi was no longer my little baby or even my little toddler. She was a big, long thing with her own tastes (garlic is disgusting) and opinions (you know, actually, I’m not keen on yellow). And it was time for her to start school.

  This felt quite unbelievable.

  Demi had already bought Lexi school shoes from H&M, but I informed him these were unsuitable.

  ‘Lexi needs width-fitting school shoes,’ I told Demi. ‘It’s vital for her foot development. She’ll be wearing these shoes every day.’

  ‘Width fitting?’ Demi queried. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Where they measure the length and width of y
our foot,’ I said. ‘For a really good fit.’

  ‘We never had anything like that growing up,’ said Demi. ‘In fact, I never had new shoes. I had hand-me-downs from my sister. It made me tough, wearing pixie boots with hearts stamped all over them. And my feet are fine. Perfectly fine.’

  ‘You have flat feet,’ I pointed out. ‘Fallen arches.’

  ‘Yes, but I was born with those.’

  ‘We have to get width-fitting school shoes,’ I insisted. ‘My mum ONLY EVER bought us width-fitting shoes. They’re important for healthy bone development.’

  I further explained that Mum believed our feet would turn into hideous, gnarled, old-hag claws if we didn’t wear width-fitting shoes.

  ‘That sounds like bollocks,’ said Demi. ‘A few extra millimetres? I’ve never met an adult with foot problems caused by childhood footwear. And what about if you have narrow feet – is it important that your shoes fit snugly at the sides? I mean, really?’

  I ignored this cynicism. When it came to Lexi’s first pair of school shoes, I would follow my mother’s fine example.

  One Saturday, Lexi and I took our first trip to Clarks shoe shop. I sold this to Lexi as a real event. A momentous life occasion, similar to buying a wedding dress. Her first pair of school shoes. And yes, Lexi, you can choose any pair of shoes you like.

  I never should have said that before checking the prices.

  God damn you, Lelli Kelly.

  HOW much for one pair of shoes? But they’re TINY. They cost more than MY shoes!

  Anyway.

  Once we’d purchased Lexi’s extortionate shoes and had them elaborately boxed and wrapped in tissue paper, I asked the question I should have asked in the first place: ‘What is a standard child’s shoe width sold by, say, H&M or Primark?’

  The Clarks assistant told me the ‘average’ shoe width was an F fitting.

  ‘So all shoes in other shops come in F fittings?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the assistant. ‘That would be the standard.’

  ‘And what width is Lexi?’ I asked.

  ‘An F,’ she replied.

  ‘So Lexi matches the width sold in every other shoe shop in the country?’ I confirmed. ‘Including the cheaper and cooler H&M?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the assistant. ‘Although we do have a sale on. Those bright-green £50 shoes are £45 now.’

  ‘Schools don’t let kids wear green shoes.’

  Still, at least we had everything we needed for Lexi’s first day at school. And before we knew it, that great day was upon us – our little bird flying the nest.

  The wave of emotions hit before we left the house.

  ‘Look,’ Lexi smiled, marching up and down in her new grey pinafore and red cardigan. ‘I’m a grown-up schoolgirl. You be teacher. Tell me to read this book. Then shout at me for not reading right.’

  Laya looked on admiringly, pulling at Lexi’s red cardigan with her cuddly hands and saying, ‘Pisscess’ (princess).

  ‘Not princess, Laya,’ Lexi corrected, in her patient-big-sister voice. ‘Schoolgirl. Big schoolgirl.’

  I burst into tears.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ Lexi asked, adding a ‘tra la laaa!’ for good measure.

  ‘You’re leaving me,’ I gulped.

  ‘But you said you’d be happy when I started school,’ said Lexi. ‘You told those other mummies you couldn’t wait. That you’d have lots more time. That you’d get your old life back.’

  Yes, I did say that.

  I’d joked about what a relief school would be. So did every other working mother I knew. ‘Five days’ free childcare, ho ho ho! I can’t wait! Miss her? Ah, ha ha ha! I don’t think so – I have far too much catching-up to do.’

  It turns out this was all bravado.

  As we walked up the country path, I realised that one day Lexi would leave me. Not today, but one day. She wouldn’t need me any more. And I felt so sad about it, and so desperately grateful that she was in my life.

  Whoa. What was happening?

  I clung to Lexi at the school gates. I tried not to cry because, you know, it upsets the kids. I shared misty-eyed sad looks with other mothers, all of us experiencing our own little soap-opera moment.

  Lexi’s first day at school. She is delighted. I am making a big silly fuss. And she didn’t even wear those expensive school shoes – she wanted wellies.

  What was going on?

  For someone who’d been desperate not to be needed every waking second, it was the most ridiculous turnaround. Wasn’t I always bleating on about independence? Telling Lexi how great it was to do things for herself and not bother poor, tired Mummy who had just sat down with a cup of tea (and a bag of M&Ms secretly stashed under the cushion).

  Independence is not neglect! Wasn’t that one of my catchphrases?

  When Lexi was born, I longed for a break. Just one teeny-tiny day off. It was all so relentless – every hour of every day with a dependant. Yes, yes, she was lovely. With her lovely little head! Aww . . .

  But there is no sidestepping or skiving when you have a baby. No computer program to do all the hard work for you. No sick days. No bank holidays. All day, every day, and nights too. Breastfeeding boobs don’t have days off.

  I longed for the days when the kids would be old enough to take care of themselves.

  But I didn’t long for those days right now.

  It had finally hit me.

  I was happy having the kids around. Really, really happy. It had just taken me five years to realise it.

  Yes, I was tired sometimes. Yes, I got bored pretending all those pages of scribbles were works of genius. No, I didn’t want to load the dishwasher again. But I loved having a family, I really did. The kids were part of me and I was part of them.

  Now my firstborn was being ripped away from me into the cold, hard clutches of school . . .

  I decided right there and then to embrace the moment and every moment from now on in. To truly live my life, not wish for another one. And with that decision (a decision I should have made a long time ago) came more freedom and joy than I’d ever known.

  When I chose to appreciate what I had, I realised I was in love every day and my heart was full to bursting point.

  I only needed the kids, Demi, our friends and a few family-friendly activities to overflow with happiness.

  I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t wanted to. I hadn’t realised it would happen. But through a process of pain and the crushing to death of my old self, I’d finally entered the next stage of life and become happy.

  We were on the family roller coaster, and for once I actually didn’t want to get off.

  It was time to stop complaining and start enjoying the ride.

  #33 LIE – KIDS ARE PORTABLE, YOU CAN TAKE THEM ANYWHERE

  With Lexi settled into school and Christmas on its way, we planned a city trip to catch up with old friends.

  When we left Brighton, we assumed we’d come back often. In fact, I’d been certain we’d move back there within a few years. After all, we loved the city, right? All the fun, creative stuff and good food? But somehow, with the chaos of the move, the new baby, the house renovations, Lexi starting school . . . well, we’d never made it back.

  The kids would love it, we decided. They’d slot right into the big city. Kids are portable, right? And it was Christmas time. Magico! Kids enjoy everything at this time of year, right?

  We strapped the kids into the sensible family car, packed a jolly picnic in our sensible cool bag (those roadside places cost a fortune) and set off to the very unsensible bright Christmas lights of Brighton.

  It would be exciting, wouldn’t it?

  I asked Lexi if she remembered our old home in Brighton.

  She tried for, ‘The carpet was orange?’

  It wasn’t.

  ‘Do you remember your Italian childminder, Mama Marzia?’ I prompted. ‘She used to say ciao, bella.’

  Lexi couldn’t remember, and further disappointed us with her poor Italian
pronunciation.

  ‘Not chew berry, Lexi. Ciao, bella.’

  As we drove on, we reminisced about our life in Brighton. We talked about all the pubs we used to go to, the clubs on the beach and that late-night hidden cocktail lounge above the Theatre Royal – the one with the speakeasy feel that would only let you in if you had friends in the theatre.

  We obviously couldn’t do a pub crawl with the kids in tow (Or could we? No, best not), but we were excited about the sushi restaurants, cupcake bakeries and cool vintage-clothes shopping. Maybe we could fit in a bit of Christmas shopping. Buy some quirky homewares.

  As we drove into Brighton, our hearts lifted at all the colourful, creative sights.

  How we’d missed those fresh croissants and multi-coloured meringues!

  There were bright neon Christmas lights everywhere and artistic festive displays.

  ‘So, who have we arranged to meet up with?’ I asked Demi.

  ‘No one exactly,’ said Demi. ‘Panda and Jim are the only people who live in the city centre now, and they’re visiting family for Christmas.’

  ‘What about Roxy and Dave and their partners? They still live in the suburbs, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a chickenpox thing going around,’ said Demi. ‘It’s not a good weekend.’

  It never is when you have kids.

  We drove right into Brighton and headed for one of the city-centre car parks. Goodness me, driving is convenient, I thought. I’m so glad we bought this car. We really did need a family vehicle.

  Then I saw the city parking fees.

  £30 for the day!

  No wonder we never had a car when we lived here.

  Sure, I wasn’t so worried about money these days. But there was no point throwing it away.

  An outraged drive around the city centre followed, narrated by me channelling my mother: ‘We’re not paying that much for parking! It’s outrageous! We could all go to the cinema for the same price!’

  Finally, I discovered what looked to be a parking spot somewhat out of the city centre.

  ‘Come on, kids,’ I announced. ‘It’s just a short walk from here. Your dad and I used to live around the corner.’