Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading!

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘Like I’m on a bumpy, winding road in an old, petrol-reeking truck,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Alex. ‘I was hoping you’d be feeling better. And that I could see you.’

  Said I still didn’t feel up to visitors.

  ‘I’m not just a visitor,’ said Alex. ‘I’m the father of your child.

  Relented, and said Alex could come over for tea, which he calls ‘supper’.

  Told Alex not to bring any food.

  ‘Not even a dessert?’ said Alex.

  ‘Especially not a dessert,’ I said. ‘Absolutely nothing contained whipped double cream or rich chocolate sauce.’

  Evening

  Alex just left. He brought me fifty red roses and a large bottle of Perrier (his mother told him sparkling water was good for morning sickness).

  Things were a bit awkward, with Alex giving me a very formal peck on the cheek, then embracing me like I was made of china.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he whispered. ‘How is the nausea?’

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ I insisted. ‘Just not too up for physical contact.’

  Alex nodded sagely, a concerned expression on his handsome face. ‘Perhaps we could see Dr Rupert Snape after all. He could tell us if this sickness is anything to worry about.’

  ‘Almost everyone gets morning sickness,’ I said. ‘It’s more common in healthy pregnancies. The extra hormones are there to prevent miscarriage.’

  Alex struggled to get his head around this biological design flaw.

  ‘But if the baby is healthy, why would the human body create illness?’

  ‘You want to know why women throw up, wee themselves and get indigestion, sciatica, constipation, migraines and brain-fuddling tiredness during pregnancy?’ I asked. ‘It’s simple. Mother Nature is a psychopathic old hag.’

  Asked Alex about his Christmas, and whether he’d got to see much of his family.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘I stayed with Anya in Kensington.’

  Asked who Anya was.

  ‘My mother,’ said Alex.

  Remembered that Anya is the Hungarian word for mother. Felt guilty for forgetting.

  ‘She would have been alone otherwise,’ Alex continued. ‘Carlos went back to Spain.’

  ‘So it was just the two of you on Christmas day?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘Very quiet. I imagine your Christmas day was somewhat busier. Listen. Juliette – have you thought any more about moving to London?’

  ‘I don’t want to move to London,’ I said. ‘Daisy is two-and-a-half. She likes parks and swings and woods. London isn’t the place for her.’

  Alex claimed London had ‘some of the best parks in the world’.

  ‘But Daisy has grandparents here,’ I said. ‘They love her. They want to be with her.’

  Mum bellowed from the kitchen: ‘I assume you’re talking about your father, not me. The best thing about being a grandparent is giving the kids back at the end of a long day.’

  I closed the door, and Alex and I chatted about family versus hired childcare.

  ‘Whatever Mum says, she truly cares about Daisy,’ I insisted.

  Alex conceded that one of his nannies, Tiggy Carmichael, smoked forty cigarettes a day, stole cigars from his father and encouraged Alex and Zach to smoke, telling them that the Marlborough cowboy never caught a cold. ‘But we loved her, nonetheless.’

  ‘I’m happy in Great Oakley,’ I said. ‘I’m not moving.’

  Alex sighed, knelt down to my stomach and kissed my woolly jumper. ‘Little one, your mother is very stubborn,’ he said. ‘But we’ll make it work somehow.’

  It was a sweet thing to say, but actually having Alex’s hands on my stomach made me feel quite nauseous.

  Sunday 7th January

  Still at the pub.

  Woke up this morning to find John Boy red-eyed and quiet, automatically spooning Frosties into his mouth between swigs from a giant tea mug.

  John Boy’s teeth were a weird grey-purple colour and he smelt like an old tramp. His attempted man bun was straggling over his face.

  Daisy said, ‘On Boy. Smelly like wee.’

  Asked John Boy why he smelt of stale booze and had teeth like a Victorian chimney sweep.

  John Boy said his new girlfriend, Gwen, had dumped him.

  I learned the whole story, through big swigs of sugary tea.

  Gwen texted John Boy yesterday and said she was seeing someone else – a mature student at her university.

  John Boy called Gwen over twenty times, but she wouldn’t answer her phone. Heartbroken, he bought a £4.99 bottle of King’s Oak Crème sherry, drank the whole thing and fell asleep on a park bench.

  The cheap, red sherry explained John Boy’s purple teeth.

  I put my arm around John Boy and told him it would be alright. Couldn’t think of anything else to say, so opted for the cliché, ‘There are plenty more fish in the sea.’

  John Boy said he hated fish. He spent the morning watching Rocky I, II and III back-to-back, then strapped his prosthetic leg on and said he was off to the shops.

  An hour later, John Boy returned with two bottles of King’s Oak Crème, a huge bag of pick and mix sweets for Daisy and a Liverpool football kit for Callum.

  Callum was delighted with the football kit, declaring it ‘well ace’ and borrowing my phone to take selfies. The age six-to-seven kit was a bit big for Callum, because he’s small for his age, but Callum declared his baggy appearance to be, ‘Growing room, innit? That’s better value.’

  Nice that he listens to Dad sometimes.

  Callum admired his selfies, believing he looked like Jamie Foxx from the new Annie movie.

  John Boy put him straight. ‘You’re just not black enough, mate. You’re more a sort of milky tea colour.’

  Callum was disappointed. ‘But I’ve sort of got an afro, haven’t I?’

  ‘No, mate,’ said John Boy. ‘Having tramlines shaved on your head is not the same as an afro.’

  Callum looked sad about that. His Dad (who he never sees) is mixed race – half Caribbean, half Norwich – and Callum has always hoped to become a black football player.

  John Boy put jelly rings on Daisy’s fingers and laced up Callum’s football boots, saying, ‘You kids are the only things keeping me going right now. If it weren’t for you two, I’d never smile again.’

  Felt hurt by this. After all, I’d comforted him earlier and made that caring ‘plenty of fish in the sea’ comment.

  Evening

  Popped out to the Co-op after tea for more cream crackers and tomato soup, while Mum and Dad watched Daisy.

  While I was at the Co-op, Mum phoned with a ‘bright idea’ for curing morning sickness – an all-inclusive holiday to Greece.

  ‘I’ve found a cracking deal for May,’ Mum told me. ‘The Teletext people are on the other line right now, ready to book us all in. Your Dad and I will pay. It’s cheap as chips – only £180 per person, including flights. That’s less than it costs to live at home.’

  ‘How will an all-inclusive holiday help my morning sickness?’ I asked.

  ‘All the food,’ said Mum. ‘You get so much choice on those all-inclusive buffets. Fruit, cheese – the lot. You’re bound to find something you can eat.’

  ‘You can’t cure morning sickness with food,’ I said. ‘Food is what makes me feel sick.’

  ‘Well, a few Coca Colas in the sunshine won’t hurt,’ Mum reasoned. ‘And it’s something to look forward to. Pregnancy is so miserable. And at the end of it, all you get is a screaming baby.’

  ‘All-inclusive holidays aren’t the place for a pregnant person,’ I said. ‘I can’t eat at normal capacity. I can’t drink alcohol. It just isn’t cost effective. I don’t want to sit around, being big and pregnant, watching everyone else get pissed and enjoy themselves.’

  Mum told me I was being ‘bloody miserable’.

  She’s right. I am bloody miserable. But that’s pregnancy for you.

&
nbsp; The moment Mum hung up, I regretted my grumpy, snap decision. A holiday would be nice, even if I can’t drink alcohol or overeat, and it’s very generous of Mum to pay for me.

  Phoned Mum back, but the line was engaged. By the time I got through, Mum had already booked the holiday for the rest of the family.

  ‘It’s fully booked now, love,’ said Mum. ‘There’s always next year. Of course, by then you’ll have a baby and a toddler. And don’t forget you’ll have to pay full whack for Daisy’s flight when she turns three. But never mind.’

  Dad came on the line and said, ‘It’s not all bad news, love. Your Mum has agreed to a family camping trip at the end of June. So you can have a lovely break with the Duffy clan in the great outdoors.’

  ‘I have not bloody agreed,’ Mum shouted in the background. ‘It is very manipulative of you to say that, Bob. All I did was mention the dry-rot in the caravan.’

  Thanked Dad for trying to cheer me up, but there’s no way I’m going camping. And from Mum’s shouting and swearing in the background, there’s no way she’s going either.

  When I got back from the Co-op, Brandi and Mum were colouring their hair in the kitchen.

  They were both wearing dressing gowns – Brandi’s skinny figure and push-up bra were wrapped in monogrammed Barbie pink. Mum’s bulging bosom and stomach sported her favoured leopard print.

  Brandi had foils all over her head and a full face of makeup, including creamy foundation, thick false eyelashes, flashes of black eyeliner and matte red lipstick.

  ‘Do you want me to give you some more blonde highlights?’ Brandi asked me. ‘Your roots are nearly an inch long. It looks like Daisy felt-tipped the top of your head.’

  Thanked her, but I’ve learned from past mistakes. Brandi always gives me white-blonde hair, no matter what tasteful, subtle blonde shade I request.

  I asked why Brandi was painting a pink colour onto Mum’s foils, rather than the usual bluey-white peroxide.

  ‘Mum fancied a change,’ said Brandi. ‘And pastel-toned blonde is very in this year.’

  When Brandi had finished, Mum was delighted with her new pinky-blonde hair.

  ‘I look like one of those Real Orange Housewives,’ said Mum.

  I was too kind to say she looked like a stick of candyfloss.

  Monday 8th January

  John Boy’s mum, Aunty Trina, phoned at 3am this morning.

  ‘I’ve just seen it on Facebook,’ Aunty Trina screeched, in her lovely Irish accent. ‘He’s not with that Gwen anymore. His profile thingy says he’s single. I’m worried about my boy. He can’t be without a woman taking care of him. He doesn’t know the first thing about bacteria.’

  ‘He’s got people taking care of him, Aunty Trina,’ I reassured her. ‘He’s at the pub with Mum and Dad.’

  Aunty Trina screeched. ‘His leg dressings need washing and ironing every day. Who will do it, if he doesn’t have a girlfriend?’

  At this point, Mum marched out of the bedroom, blonde-pink hair sticking up all over the place, and snatched the phone.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Trina, it’s 3am,’ she roared. ‘Let us all get some rest.’

  Then Mum slammed the phone down and stomped back to bed.

  Tuesday 9th January

  Woke this morning to hear Aunty Trina banging on the front door.

  Mum stomped downstairs, shouting and swearing.

  I heard the door open, and Aunty Trina shouting and swearing back.

  Then Mum and Aunty Trina had a screaming match on the doorstep.

  I heard references to Mum’s pink hair and Aunty Trina’s 80s leather jacket.

  Dad pleaded with both women to stay calm and not hit each other.

  After ten minutes of shouting, Mum said, ‘Come in for a bacon sandwich then, Trina. Bob will help with your luggage.’

  Stumbled out of my bedroom to find Dad hauling three floral suitcases upstairs.

  Aunty Trina was already in the kitchen, washing the cupboard doors with vinegar and baking soda solution.

  There were three Aldi shopping bags on the table filled with sugary cereal and biscuits.

  Aunty Trina’s birds’ nest of peroxided hair was stiff and unmoving as she vigorously scrubbed kitchen cupboards.

  ‘Trina’s going to stay with us for a bit,’ Mum announced. ‘She and John Boy can have some quality time.’

  A few minutes later, John Boy sloped out of his bedroom in combat trousers, with Callum clinging to his good leg.

  John Boy didn’t seem at all surprised to see Aunty Trina in the kitchen and greeted her with a casual, ‘Hello, Ma.’

  ‘You’ve had another tattoo,’ said Aunty Trina, hitting John Boy about the head with a kitchen roll. ‘And your beard is too long. You look like a terrorist.’

  John Boy, oblivious to the beating, poured himself a bowl of Sugar Puffs.

  Aunty Trina looked worried then. ‘Won’t you have a proper breakfast, son? You can’t just have cereal, you’ll waste away. I’ve bought black pudding and two dozen eggs.’

  John Boy admitted he’d had ‘a few beers’ last night, so wasn’t quite up to a full English.

  Aunty Trina hit him around the head again, then demanded to know if he’d been cleaning his leg properly.

  ‘Yes,’ said John Boy in a tired voice, adding three sugars to his Sugar Puffs.

  ‘You need to change those dressings every day,’ said Trina, aggressively prodding John Boy’s shoulder. Then she had an inquisitive sniff of his thigh area and said, ‘Those sleeves need a good wash. And those underpants.’

  She sent John Boy back to his bedroom to change.

  ‘Has he been eating alright, Shirley?’ Aunty Trina asked, eyes wild with worry as she spooned ten sugars into the teapot.

  Mum reassured her about the ‘cracking pork butchers’ down the road.

  ‘He’s had a hot pie or pasty every day,’ said Mum. ‘And all the sausages he wants for breakfast.’

  Mum’s nutritional views are from the 1960s, when meat was regarded as a health food.

  I’m not happy about this new development, re: Aunty Trina staying with us. But I can’t really complain, since I’m a sickly interloper.

  Will just have to get used to the smell of bleach and Shake n’ Vac.

  Evening

  Alex just phoned.

  He’d finished work (at 7pm!) and thought he might pop over for an ‘early’ supper.

  Told him I was already in bed, feeling pregnant, weak and exhausted.

  Given our conflicting sleeping/working schedules, it might be a while until we see each other.

  Wednesday 10th January

  My nausea was a bit better this morning, so visited Laura and baby Bear in London.

  It was probably a mistake to take Daisy on the train. She’s okay as long as I constantly talk/distract/read stories, but it’s like sitting beside a hand grenade, praying it won’t go off. The moment I relax and enjoy the scenery … boom!

  Laura greeted me at the door of her Bloomsbury townhouse, looking like one of those girls in Stylist magazine.

  My beautiful big sister has already got her figure back (no surprise, since she was out jogging five days after the birth), and was gorgeous in loose, turn-up jeans, white plimsolls and a soft, pink-cashmere jumper artfully draped off one shoulder.

  Her shiny, natural blonde hair hung straight down her back, and her soft, lovely face smiled with kindness and love.

  Baby Bear wore a little shirt and trousers, and looked like a miniature, balding executive, boss-eyed and drunk after a boozy lunch.

  Laura made us tea from herbs and fruits she’d dried herself in her new dehydrating machine. She apologised that Zach couldn’t join us, but he’s busy with his new wind turbine business.

  Laura, Daisy and I watched baby Bear dribble and chew at things, then vomit white sick over his nice clothes.

  ‘Just think,’ said Laura, her eyes going soft. ‘You’ll have another one of these soon.’

  ‘I know,’ I sa
id. ‘How will I cope?’

  ‘You’ll cope,’ said Laura.

  My sister is so serene. A natural at motherhood, and everything else she turns her hand to.

  We’re so not alike.

  Thursday 11th January

  Callum did a bad thing today.

  He poured all the toiletries into the bathtub: my whitening toothpaste, a bottle of Mr Matey bubble bath, Dad’s pine-scented Radox, Mum’s Wash and Go shampoo and Aunty Trina’s rose-scented talcum powder. He sprayed the mixture with John Boy’s Lynx Africa deodorant and added Brandi’s peroxide powder and other dangerous beautician’s chemicals.

  Dad and I discovered Callum in the bathroom, toilet brush in hand, stirring a fizzing, gelatinous pool of orange liquid.

  Callum’s eyebrows had turned bright white, which I suppose was some strange reaction to the peroxide fumes.

  ‘Callum,’ said Dad, in his sternest voice. ‘Kindly explain what you are doing.’

  ‘I’m doing science,’ Callum replied.

  Dad was incensed. ‘This isn’t science,’ he said. ‘Where is your hypothesis? Where are your measuring instruments? This is just making a mess.’

  Callum did have a hypothesis of sorts – he believed his concoction, if fed to Sambuca the cat, would create a mega super-feline ‘the likes of which the world has never seen’.

  It turns out they’re reading George’s Marvellous Medicine at Callum’s school.

  Dad doled out his favourite sort of punishment – a learning experience. He made Callum turn the mess into a ‘proper scientific experiment’.

  I walked past the bathroom an hour later and saw a sorry-looking Callum measuring and recording everything he’d wasted.

  Callum was even more upset when he finally saw his eyebrows in the hallway mirror.

  ‘How am I going to charm the babes looking like this?’ he wailed.

  Friday 12th January

  HEADACHE.

  This is another forgotten symptom of early pregnancy – the random migraines that sweep you into bed for hours on end.