The Motherhood Walk of Fame

by Shari Low

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ I asked him.

  ‘Two weeks. Took annual leave.’

  Okay, so he hadn’t chucked his job in blind faith that I was going to be Spielberg’s right-hand woman, but that was fine. A fortnight was a start.

  I decided to go for the white-flag approach.

  ‘I’m glad you came.’

  ‘You didn’t leave me any choice. How could I stay away from my boys for a month?’

  White flag shredded.

  ‘Ah, so you didn’t dash over here because you couldn’t live without me a moment longer?’ There was a definite edge to my voice.

  ‘Look, Carly, we are never going to agree on this one. Did I miss you? Yes, I did. Was storming over here on a whim completely irresponsible? Sure it was. But that’s you. Spontaneous, adventurous, irresponsible.’

  How come when he said those things it didn’t sound like a compliment?

  ‘Mark, you can’t stay pissed off with me forever. You’re here now. Let’s make the most of it. We could even try acting like we’re married and madly in love and see what happens.’ I tried desperately to lighten the atmosphere. ‘You might get to like it.’

  He smiled and at last his voice softened into something approaching light-hearted. ‘You’re right. I might. Wouldn’t bet on it, though.’

  I reached under the duvet and squeezed his right nipple. Hard.

  ‘Tell me you love me or the nipple’s coming off.’

  His knees reflexively came up as he tried to squirm out of my grip.

  ‘I love you,’ he screeched. Victory was mine. I let go, then reached out and ran my finger across his chest. I really was so glad he was here. At that moment I wanted more than anything to work things out.

  He reached over and pushed my hair back from my face.

  ‘I do love you,’ he repeated, before leaning over to kiss me.

  ‘I love you too,’ I whispered. ‘And I just want things to be the way they used to be. Between us, I mean.’

  ‘Me too,’ he replied. He put his arm around me and pulled me in tight, holding me for an age, as if he couldn’t bear to let me go. Oh how amazing that felt–to be back in his arms, to feel his breath against my skin, to hear his…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  I opened one eye and squinted up. Yep, he was sleeping. Unconscious. Zonked.

  I was wide awake, horny, deflated.

  Yep, things were indeed exactly the way they used to be.

  Family Values Magazine

  PUTTING THE YUMMY IN MUMMY

  THIS WEEK…FAMILY OUTINGS

  As we all know, education doesn’t stop when that school bell rings and your nanny whisks your child home. Or, in the case of boarders, when your offspring return for a short break at home.

  Children learn from a multitude of experiences and one such occasion is the family excursion. Happy, family days are a bonding experience for your offspring allowing them to experience the delights of their parents’ company and instilling in them an appreciation of the rich experiences they will come to understand more fully as they move towards adulthood.

  Plant a seed of love for the arts with a trip to a museum or gallery.

  Encourage an interest in music with a jaunt to the opera or ballet.

  Indulge in those joyful English traditions: afternoon tea at the Ritz, horse riding in Richmond Park, a day of history at Windsor Castle.

  Or for the more fearless and adventurous among you, a camping expedition is a fine way to view the joys of nature first-hand. Pack up your Cath Kidston tent, your Barbour jacket and your mohair rug and head for the great outdoors (for safety reasons we would recommend that this is done in the grounds of your own home or that of a friend–if you do venture further afield, it is essential to avoid campsites that offer entertainment, licensed facilities and static homes, as these are often frequented by unsavoury characters).

  However you choose to spend the day, do remember to pre-empt your trip with a visit to the Farmers’ Market for supplies of freshly prepared organic treats, because as we all know, when it comes to children, a healthy body is a healthy mind.

  Enjoy your day of family fun–and, at the end of it, congratulate yourself that you’ve added to the texture and depth of your child’s education. And as we all know ladies, education is like fine wine, good company and household help–you can never have too much.’

  Step Ten

  ‘Mum, can I change my name again?’ asked Mac hopefully.

  ‘Of course you can–let me guess, you want to be Buzz Lightyear?’

  ‘To infinity and beyond!’ yelled Benny while swinging his Buzz pants and holding one fist in the air in a superhero-like pose.

  ‘Nope, Evil Emperor Zurg.’

  Bugger. It didn’t bode well for a day of good behaviour, brotherly relations and pristine manners. Helpful, though, if we decided to invade a neighbouring country.

  It was the day after Mark and Carol had arrived and we’d succumbed to Carol’s demands for an LA ‘experience’. I was hoping for a wander along the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Or a jolly down to Venice beach to watch the body-builders in the outdoor gym get sand up their gluteus maximus.

  ‘Shopping on Rodeo Drive, baby, then I’ve booked a table at the Ivy,’ she announced.

  Okay, mothers of the world, this one is for you. In this situation would you:

  say, ‘Fabulous!’, shrug on a little D&G number and head for the shops; or

  point out the pitfalls of a day of shopping and a posh lunch with two children under five in a clear and concise manner along the lines of‘ I’d rather have my pubes plucked out with a Dyson’.

  Buzz decked Zurg with a stiletto in Versace. Zurg retaliated by using a Louis Vuitton umbrella as a lightsaber and attempting to decapitate the saviour of the galaxy in full view of three shop assistants, a security guard and one of Rod Stewart’s ex-wives. The tall blonde one.

  Mark missed all of this as he was doing the standard bloke thing and standing outside the shop, checking his watch every five minutes while suffering from an acute case of terminal boredom. Unfortunately, this made him look like a bodyguard, and as a result Japanese tourists flocked into every shop we were in and then vented their general irritation that Carol and I weren’t Diaz and Barrymore, Cruz and Hayek, or even former members of the Spice Girls. Although we did murder a chorus of ‘2 Become 1’ in the middle of Prada in an attempt to pacify them.

  And not one moment of that was more embarrassing than lunch at West Hollywood’s favourite star-bedecked eatery.

  Carol had secured the table on the very exclusive patio courtesy of an old modelling chum who was on first-name terms with the restaurant manager. So far, so name-droppingly, hobnobbingly glam. We were in celebrity-spotting heaven!

  Carol had the shrimp salad along with a peek at Charlie Sheen, a possible Rob Lowe and a definite Heather Locklear. I had the pasta of the day, with a long stare at Lindsay Lohan, a grin at Christina Aguilera and a peruse of Pamela Anderson. Then we discovered that my Pam and Carol’s Heather was the same person–well, we could only see her from the back (and incidentally, she needed her roots done).

  The boys were impeccably behaved and had pizza and a five-dollar bribe each. And Mark had a great big bowl of boredom–celebrity-spotting had never been his thing.

  It was all going along swimmingly until Carol gasped and leaned towards me. ‘Babe, you are soooo going to love me,’ she hissed.

  ‘What? In a sisterly fashion or are we talking Rosie O’Donnell meets Ellen?’

  And that’s when my sister-in-law, the former Scottish supermodel, drew herself up to her full height, tossed back her auburn tendrils, swaggered over to a couple of blokes sitting three tables behind me, slapped on her very best grin and purred, ‘Mr Neeson, my friend is a huge fan–would you mind autographing our menu?’

  Oh. My. God. I held my breath. My stomach turned. My head spun. Right up until Gabriel Byrne asked her if she was from some shite M
TV spoof show and stormed off in a huff.

  I begged the kids to assault each other just to create a diversion, but no–for the first time in life they were verging on bloody sainthood. A fact that Mark offered in desperate mitigation when the manager asked us to leave. Apparently talking to the celebs is banned and mistaking them for someone else ranks just above treason on the Hollywood Talk of Shame.

  As I said…bugger.

  Next day we’d learned our lesson so we left our choice of destination up to the boys. An hour later we were on a repeat trip to Disneyland. It would have been churlish to object–after all, they’d experienced the thrills and excitement with their Uncle Sam so it was great that their father was getting to share it this time around.

  Besides, I loved the rides, the atmosphere, and the unadulterated optimism of the theme parks. Although I was beginning to get homicidal tendencies towards all large creatures containing grown men.

  As expected, since it was their life story, the Buzz Lightyear show was the highlight for the boys. We found it difficult to share their devotion. As the final song entered yet another chorus, Carol leaned in close and whispered, ‘Is it just me who wants to kick the shit out of Buzz?’

  I checked Mac was out of earshot. ‘I presume you are talking about the one murdering that song on the stage?’ I checked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Start punching and please never, ever stop,’ I retorted hopefully.

  I looked at Mark, sitting next to me with Benny on his shoulders and Mac on his knee. He was laughing at Benny, who was now copying the actions of the characters in the show. It was great to see him relaxing and enjoying himself. It struck me that this was the first time in years that we’d spent more than a few hours together without one of us being asleep. And it felt great. It did. Maybe this would be the jolt we needed to remind us that life was about love, about each other, and not just about shagging in forty-seven different positions on a daily basis or not.

  Although, depending on location, work demands and general bendiness, that might be nice occasionally.

  Groan, I was back to sex again.

  I was becoming obsessed. I’d experienced this syndrome before. Whenever I went on a diet, I could quite happily commit armed robbery in a bakery for an iced fruit slice. Whenever I decided to have a month-long alcohol detox, I started hallucinating that vases were morphing into bottles of Asti Spumante. Now, since Mark had arrived, I’d been obsessed with sex.

  Location? Idyllic. Work demands? Zero. General bendiness? Adequate. And had he put out? Not once. Not even a quickie.

  And it didn’t help when Sam was around, oozing wit, charm and pheromones that were sending psychic messages to my erogenous zones every time I ventured within a hundred yards of him. It was a blessing that he had pleaded prior social commitments and opted not to come with us on our theme-park expeditions, because there isn’t an ovary in the land that wouldn’t leap at the sight of him coming off the log flume with his T-shirt soaked and clinging to every inch of him.

  Later that night, I cracked. As we climbed into bed after another convivial evening by the poolside with the boys, Carol, and Sam, I knew that I couldn’t go another night without confronting the problem. But how to approach it? Should I just pounce on in there and initiate lustful groping? Or should I kiss him and refuse to stop until he took it a stage further? Or perhaps we should talk about it, like a sort of theory test before we tackled the practicalities.

  I immediately ruled out pouncing. The last time I pounced it led to a sulk, a crushed ego and a repetitive strain injury. All mine.

  Likewise, the seduction by suction probably wasn’t wise either–too much of a risk that he’d fall asleep midway through.

  ‘Mark, do you ever wonder what happened to our sex life?’

  Yep, I even said it out loud.

  There was a long pause. Then, just when I was about to weep because he’d fallen asleep on me again, he finally spoke.

  ‘I guess it’s not been that great lately.’ Mark Barwick, Golden Globe Winner 2006 in the category of Best Understatement in a Dramatic Situation.

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked, in as non-accusatory a tone as I could manage when everything below the neck was screaming, ‘Hurry up and get to the tickly bit!’

  Another long silence. I had to bite my lip not to butt in and give him a twenty-five-point analysis of why we hadn’t had great sex since the Eighties. Okay, maybe it just felt that long.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered earnestly. ‘Kids, work, exhaustion, time…’ Then, in a lighter tone, ‘…a wife who’s on the other side of the Atlantic.’

  I laughed. ‘Yeah, yeah, blame me. Well, listen, just so you know–I’m easy, okay? You don’t even have to ask twice. Or once, for that matter. Just start the fondling stuff and I’ll get the picture and join in.’

  ‘Am I being reprimanded here?’ he said as he playfully tugged my arm so that I fell over on top of him.

  ‘You are. Is it working?’

  ‘Consider me repentant,’ he whispered as he flipped me over then climbed on top of me. He leaned down and kissed first my left ear, then my right. Then he moved on to my cheeks, my eyes, my neck, downwards to my…

  Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Halleee-ee-ee-lujah!

  I gasped with the sheer delight of it as he sucked on my nipples, slowly and gently at first, then more insistent, sucking harder and harder. By the time he got to Dyson level I was buckling with waves of sheer ecstasy and my lower body was limbo-dancing of its own accord. If I were a bloke, it would have been called premature ejaculation. But since I was lucky enough to have female chromosomes it was simply called ‘fantastic–first of many’.

  I put my fingers into his hair and pulled him upwards, before he had any notion of carrying on further south. I know cunnilingus gets great press but to be honest I think it’s overrated. If I stare at the ceiling for too long I start getting thoughts of decorating and I’ve yet to come up with a spine-tingling fantasy involving B&Q.

  When his face reached mine, I kissed him, then pushed him over before climbing on top. I eased his hands up over his head, wrapping his fingers around the bars that were very conveniently located on the headboard. I wondered if Sam had chosen that bed for that reason. Sam. Oh God, Sam. I closed my eyes as I guided Sam’s–I mean Mark’s–cock inside me. He groaned as I sat back, one hand reaching behind me to grab his balls. I licked the fingers of my other hand then traced the outline of my nipples, all the time gyrating up and down, up and down.

  ‘Oh, fuck, I missed you,’ he groaned. Well, given the circumstances I should think so really.

  I held a finger to his lips. ‘Ssssh.’

  I didn’t want him to speak. I wanted no conversation, no talking dirty, no sweet nothings, I wanted absolutely nothing to break the spell as Sam and I–aaargh–Mark and I rode towards a complete and utter simultaneous, thundering lip bite.

  Yep, lip bite. It’s a parent thing. The last thing you want during or immediately after sex is for a wee set of feet to pad into the room, attached to a child who’s wailing because he ‘heard a scary noise’.

  So what, in the old days, was a simultaneous exclamation of orgasmic delight was now contained as much as possible by biting the bottom lip at the crucial moment. Thus sex is never a good idea if you’re prone to cold sores or planning on eating something spicy the next day.

  But right at that moment I couldn’t have given a toss about the next day. As I felt Sam coming inside me, his hands now escaped from the headboard and clutching my hips, I felt a surrender that was pure joy. Oh, shit, I said Sam again, didn’t I? Thankfully, not out loud.

  Mark reached up and pulled me down on top of him, both hands clutching my face as he kissed me softly, tenderly on the lips.

  ‘I love you, Carly,’ he whispered gently, his voice raw with emotion.

  ‘I love you too,’ I replied

  Mark, definitely Mark.

  Wasn’t it?

  The following
morning we woke to chills and torrential rain.

  Kidding.

  The sun, as per glorious usual, was high in the sky and it was a gorgeous eighty degrees.

  We met around the breakfast table to plan our entertainment strategy for the day.

  ‘Count me out, folks–much as I’d love to visit Disney yet again, I’ve got a game of football organised. I play for a British team against the Americans and it’s competitive stuff–if I didn’t show up they’d lynch me.’

  ‘Where’s the game?’ Carol asked.

  ‘Rod Stewart’s.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know he had a stadium named after him,’ Carol replied, perplexed.

  ‘He doesn’t–it’s at his house. Sometimes we play at Robbie’s, but today it’s Rod’s.’

  ‘Sam, do you love me?’ she asked in a seductive voice.

  He grinned. ‘Course I do, you know that.’

  ‘Then let me be the team physio. I’m great with groin strains, I promise.’

  ‘Babe, that’s a great idea,’ Sam replied, as Carol visibly glowed, ‘but we’ve already got a physio.’

  ‘Could I take her out without a weapon?’

  ‘Doubt it. “She” is a “he” and he’s built like a tank.’

  He grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge, kissed Carol and me on the cheek, kissed the boys on the top of the head and said goodbye to Mark. ‘Good luck, mate–another day with these two,’ he gestured to Carol and me.

  ‘Yeah, well, my wife and a supermodel–it’s a tough job.’

  Oh, cute reply. I loved that man.

  ‘Tell Robbie and Rod what they missed today!’ Carol demanded.

  ‘I will, I promise,’ he assured her, before going off to socialise with the people I normally only encountered in celebrity magazines.

  Oh, what a life. I loved that man as well.

  My stomach gave a minor lurch. This dual-affection syndrome had to stop. I was married to Mark. He was sitting three feet away from me. If we were Vulcans he’d already have divorced me because he’d have picked up on my mental infidelity.