by Emlyn Rees
‘All the children, here we go,’ she chirrups, nodding to Magda who presses the button on the CD machine.
But it’s the wrong song. Furious, Trish bats her hand, eventually stomping off to the corner to tell off Magda.
Finally, the right music comes on.
‘And, five, six, seven, eight,’ Trish announces, smiling broadly and pulling all the children into a conga formation.
‘No, Mumma, no,’ Ben says, crawling into my lap and burying his head in my shoulder. He always calls me Mumma when he’s being particularly affectionate. He smells delicious – of fabric softener and baby shampoo and Marmite toast.
The problem is that I’m kind of with him. Trish looks scary to me, let alone to a nearly two-year-old.
‘Home,’ he says, pulling back and gripping my shoulders with his little hands, so that he can look at me with his huge brown eyes with their impossibly long lashes.
My heart swells. Part of me wants to wrap him up and take him home and protect him from the perils of other children and the awfulness of having to join in with them.
Maybe it would all be simpler if I let him sit at home in front of CBeebies all day until he’s school age. Perhaps that would be educational enough. After all, who’s to say he should be socialised? And why should he socialise with this lot, in particular? They’re not exactly scintillating company for an adult, either.
But no. I’m doing this for him. For his benefit and he’s going to join in whether he likes it or not. Besides, I’ve paid for it.
I gently push him away. ‘Go on, darling, it’s OK. Mumma’s here.’
Trish homes in on him and grabs him. The more I look at her, the more I think there’s definitely something Wicked Witch of the West about her. Her nails are painted purple and look like talons on her wrinkly hand. I half expect an evil hoard of monkeys to appear from somewhere.
Ben’s eyes grow wide with horror and tears. He looks at me as if I’ve totally betrayed him, as the Wicked Witch hauls him away. Like Dorothy would if Toto had taken a leak in her red slippers, before selling her out for a can of Pedigree Chum.
‘No like you, Mummy,’ he calls back.
Ouch.
Meltdown
Of course, by the end of the session, Ben’s loving it and he doesn’t want to leave. I have to drag him away, carrying him under my arm out of the hall. Kids are like that. They hate what they don’t know. They love what they do.
I’m just crossing the road to the bus stop, when my phone rings. I’m hoping it’s Jack and, juggling Ben and the buggy, I somehow manage to press the answer button. It’s only then that I realise it’s my mother.
‘Now, Ben’s birthday . . . ?’ she says by way of greeting. There’s an expectant rise in her voice, the kind that manages to convey that she’s slightly miffed she hasn’t yet received a handmade invitation (one of Ben’s potato prints maybe?) through the post.
‘Ben’s birthday?’ I ask back, ignoring the obvious implication. I lift Ben up, gripping the phone against my shoulder, as I manhandle the buggy over the high kerb. A car beeps me.
‘Piss off,’ I yell, somehow managing to find a spare finger to flip at the driver.
‘What did you say?’ Mum demands.
‘Not you. Someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Well, clearly it does, or you wouldn’t be using language like –’
Ben tries to headbutt me. ‘Stop it,’ I warn.
‘No, I will not,’ Mum says.
‘Not you,’ I repeat, exasperated. ‘Ben.’
‘Ben’s with you? Well, that’s even more reason for you not to speak like that.’
Lord, Give Me Strength.
I let go of the buggy and put my finger to my lip, to tell Ben to be quiet, but he’s not happy and repeatedly attempts to slap my face.
‘Mum. Look I’m really busy. Was there anything –’
‘So when’s his party?’ my mother asks, clearly annoyed that I’ve forced her hand.
I lower Ben into the buggy.
‘When is his party? Um. Well, I wasn’t thinking of doing a party, Mum,’ I lie. Actually, I’ve been thinking about nothing else since I was forced into it by the Vipers, but there’s absolutely no way I can ask any family. That ups the numbers to far beyond the capacity of our flat and I’ve left it too late even to think about hiring somewhere else.
Not that we’ve got any money for hiring anything much more than a DVD right now. Not after Jack bought me that necklace. I felt so bad at the time for having doubted him and for having assumed he would have forgotten our anniversary. I felt like such a low-down doubting Thomas that the next day, I ransacked the flat until I found the receipt for the necklace and read it (naughty, I know). I guess I was hoping to assuage my guilt, but the receipt only confirmed that Jack had pushed out the boat and made a truly romantic gesture and bought me the kind of gift that he knew I’d love – the kind of understated-but-nevertheless-unmistakeably-expensive necklace that rich girls (like Camilla) receive. I love Jack for doing it (I haven’t taken it off yet), but really, our bank account is about as healthy as a corpse, and, since I was so in the wrong about our anniversary, I still haven’t found the right moment to break it to him that I’ve invited all the Vipers plus husbands, plus kids over for Ben’s birthday. If I compound my hideous error by asking Mum too, he’ll go bonkers.
There’s a short intake of breath, as Mum contemplates the horror of what I’ve just said.
‘But you’ve got to have a party, darling. Think of the child.’
The child. She always says this. Not, your son, or my grandson, or even his name. No, for important conversations where she needs to upgrade Ben’s status and downgrade mine, he’s the child. It would be fine if instead of living in NW10, I lived in Galilee and was, in fact, the Virgin Mary. I’d get used to people referring to my son as ‘the child’. But as it is, it gets right on my tits.
‘I am thinking of Ben, Mum,’ I say pointedly. ‘I’m thinking that he’s two, and that we live in a tiny flat, and he’s not going to remember it anyway –’
‘How can you possibly say that?’ she interrupts. ‘Of course he’ll remember it. I mean, not physically probably, but emotionally . . . they say that celebrating birthdays with the child’s close family makes a huge impact . . .’
She says this as if she’s reading it from a parenting manual – the kind of manual I’ve never bought, but she has a shelf full of them purchased on a month-by-month basis since Ben was born.
I try to do the straps up on Ben’s gingham buggy, but he’s not having it. He emits a low screech-growl and his cheeks go red.
‘Please,’ I hiss at him, through gritted teeth. Not again. Not today. I jam my forearm across him, my face tensed for war. I lean in close. ‘Stay in,’ I threaten. ‘Or else –’
But it’s too late. It’s a code red. Ben has clocked that conditions are right for a full-blown tantrum.
Hungry. Check. Tired. Check. Bus stop full of bored onlookers with nothing better to do than provide captive audience for tantrum. Check. Mother distracted. Check. Even better . . . mother on phone to grandma. Check . . .
Ben does a violent back arch. His arm punches out at full force, catching me on the nose with a right hook Mike Tyson would be proud of.
‘No! No buggy! NO BUGGY!!!’ he screams, thrashing around.
‘Mum . . . Mum . . . can I call you back?’ I ask politely, trying to keep calm, as I hold my nose. My head’s spinning. I check my palm. There’s blood.
Incredibly, Mum’s still talking.
‘I’ve got every one of your birthdays in a photo album,’ she continues, oblivious to my tone. ‘I can bring it over. Your second birthday was wonderful. Alice and Richard and all the old gang were there.’
She thinks this gives her top marks for parenting. If she had one ounce of parenting skills, however, she would suss that I’m in the middle of a crisis and stop playing ‘I’m a better mother th
an you’.
Ben continues thrashing. He’s screaming so loudly and bucking so violently that a cyclist stops to stare at him, then looks around to check for hidden cameramen. Like this might be some kind of stunt.
Why is it that, all my life, for as long as I can remember, I’ve slogged through exams and tests and been forced into accruing tonnes of useless, impractical knowledge – how to dissect an earthworm, how to ask the directions to the nearest carpark in German (Wo is das Parkplatz, bitte?), how to master Word Perfect, how to use all those brown logarithm keys on a calculator – instead of anything that might come remotely close to teaching me how to deal with a toddler having a hissy fit?
I can feel the eyes of the bus-stop onlookers boring into my back. I can feel the weight of their expectation.
But how the fuck should I know what to do?
OK, so I know I should be taking control. He is, after all, my son. But if I lift Ben up, there’s every chance he’ll headbutt me and I’m injured enough already. If I let him out of the buggy, there’s every chance he’ll start headbutting the pavement.
But what am I thinking? I can’t lift him up, or let him out. I can’t let him win. He’s nearly two. If I let him win, I’m stuffed for life. He’ll think I’m weak. He’ll assume he’s in charge, and the next thing I know, he’ll be fourteen years old and skiving off school and shagging his girlfriend, and staying out clubbing and driving drunk on his moped. I know. I’ve been there. Done that.
So I’m not going to give in to him. No way.
I keep him pinned exactly where he is and try again to fasten the straps.
But playing by my own rules is extremely hard. I’m being verbally and physically abused. In public. Shouldn’t a UN Peacekeeping Envoy be here any second? I turn desperately to the crowd, but they’re all staring at me. It’s clear that none of them has any intention of helping.
Desperately, I look up at the sky. Where’s my chopper with a rescue ladder?
‘Well?’ Mum says, waiting for my response.
I’m forced into crisis management. I’m simply not strong enough to stand up to two generations at once. Hating myself and knowing that I’m going to regret it, I make a snap decision on potential long-term damage. I give in to my mother.
‘OK, OK, OK, come on Sunday then. I’ll have a little party,’ I bark at her, shrinking inwardly at my own weakness. ‘Now I’ve got to go, I think I’m running out of –’ I say, pressing the button and cutting her off.
I throw the phone into my bag and give Ben my full attention. I pinion him into the buggy, forcing myself not to swear at him. And . . . ha! I finally lock the straps.
Ignoring his piercing yells of fury, I set off at a ripping pace up the road. Sod the bus.
‘Poor little scrap,’ a lady says as I pass the bus stop, looking down into the buggy and then up at me. ‘He’s probably just hungry, love.’
Well, wouldn’t you just know it. Just when you least need one. Who should turn up? A genuine MOB (Meddling Old Biddy). Typical.
You meet MOBs all the time. At first I was truly shocked when I discovered their existence, because, as a female, it would never occur to me to dole out unwarranted, slightly critical advice, to a stranger, when they’re obviously stressed. It’s just not done. It goes against every code of social etiquette.
That is, unless you’re a MOB. MOBs are a breed unto themselves. And new mothers are fair game to them. They seek you out and time their strikes for when you’re at your most vulnerable. ‘Are you going to feed that baby?’ (Tesco’s dairy aisle, when Ben was two weeks old and hyperventilating with fury.) ‘He’s too hot, he’ll overheat. That’s why he’s upset.’ (Stuck on the Piccadilly Line, at midday, during a heatwave.) The list goes on . . .
But the golden rule of dealing with MOBs is never to engage with them. Because they really do think that they know more about your baby than you do.
Back off, Hag, I think to myself, pushing on past, but I still feel the curse of the MOB upon me. I feel low down and depressed.
There’s only one thing for it: sugar fix.
I dive into the nearest shop and buy myself a bar of chocolate. There’s a Win a Shopping Trip to New York competition on the wrapper. Yeah. Right. Like that’s ever going to happen.
But I still read all the details, as I stand on the street. Ben’s fallen asleep. I finish the chocolate in one go, and I’m about to set off again, when my phone rings.
It’s Alex Murray, the producer of Jessie Kay’s show on Radio CapitalChat. I’m so flummoxed that it takes me a while to understand what he’s saying. It seems that my rant this morning on My Rant has prompted a really good response from callers. And they all feel exactly like me. And now Jessie Kay thinks I’m chocolate. And she wants me on her show again.
Ha!
See Jack, I think, wiping the blood off my nose on the back of a nappy, I’m not just a bored housewife or a nutter.
I’m a real person, after all.
4
Jack
The Exorcism Of Amy Rossiter
I flick the radio over from Radio CapitalChat on to XFM and take off my jacket and stretch and yawn. It’s Sunday morning, just gone eleven, and I’d give anything to still be in bed.
Out through the kitchen window, warm sunshine filters through the eucalyptus tree. It dapples our back garden, which is the same shape as a slice of toast and not a lot bigger.
Delicate yellow jasmine flowers are scattered like Christmas lights along the garden’s ivy-covered rear wall. Honeysuckle hangs from the worn wooden side fence in a candy floss of white blossom, and the Cornelia roses I planted last year for Amy’s birthday are out in full bloom, and glistening from when I watered them earlier.
It’s as good a day as any, I suppose, for the barbecue that Amy’s got planned, and I almost wish I’d asked some of my friends over.
The problem is, most of them (like Ug, Chas and Mikey) don’t yet have kids, which means that kids’ parties are still high up there on their lists of ‘Extremely Uncool Things To Do’ (along, one suspects, with getting up before lunchtime at the weekend, staying at home on a Friday night and listening to James Blunt).
And as for the friends of mine that do have kids . . . well, it wouldn’t be fair to ask them either. For one thing, they’re probably suffering from kiddie fatigue themselves, and for another, none of them lives nearby any more. They’ve been scattered across the country by parenthood, as if by a war. Forced to enlist in the ranks of new social tribes, in safer communities, with cleaner streets and better schools.
‘Look, Dadda . . .’
I turn and smile at the birthday boy himself, who’s sitting in his chair at the end of the kitchen table, smearing Marmite all over his face. I kiss him on the brow and he giggles my name.
‘What’s that?’ Amy demands, coming through from the bedroom, and staring down at the two Sainsbury’s bags I’ve just dumped on the kitchen table.
She’s dressed in jeans, open-toe sandals and a loose green top. She’s looking rumpled and sexy, the way she always does in the morning, before she’s had a chance to shower and do her hair.
Or maybe it’s just stress.
‘The shopping,’ I answer.
‘Where’s the rest of it?’
‘The lager’s in the car. I picked up an extra slab. Along with some vodka. You know, just in case . . .’ Just in case Ben’s birthday party turns out to be fun, I’m thinking. Which is about as likely as Jim Carrey and Mike Myers turning up in person to do the kids’ entertainment. But still, you never know . . .
‘No, I mean where’s the rest of the food?’ Amy asks.
‘There is no rest. That’s it.’
‘But . . .’ She starts rummaging through the shopping, like she’s a customs official at Heathrow Airport acting on a tip-off. ‘But what about the organic chicken nuggets?’ she demands. ‘And the manuka honey? And the Belazu olives and sesame seed breadsticks? What about the guacamole and haloumi? And . . . and everything else that
was on the list I gave you?’
She stares at me in exasperation, like it’s me, not her, who’s suddenly started speaking fluent Martian.
‘Oh, that,’ I say. ‘I didn’t get any of that.’
‘What?’
‘I decided it was overkill.’
‘Overkill? You decided? You, who’ve put so much effort into arranging this party . . .’
‘Oh, come on. We’ve already got plenty of meat defrosting for the barbecue, and most of that other stuff you wanted would have ended up in the bin. It would have been a complete waste of money.’
Amy doesn’t answer. Or not in words at least. What she does is growl. It’s the kind of growl a Rottweiler dog might make if you tried to take its favourite bone off it, the kind of growl that says, Back off, pal. Or walk with a limp for the rest of your life.
I watch in bewilderment as Amy snatches three cartons of milk from me and rams them into the fridge like artillery shells into a cannon.
I’m about to point out to her that her current level of anger (a 7.9 on the Amy-Richter Scale) constitutes a completely disproportionate reaction to my entirely sensible rationalisation of her overambitious shopping plan, when another possibility springs to mind.
‘How many people have you invited?’ I ask.
‘I already told you: a few.’
‘How many?’
She slams the fridge door and rears up, spinning round to face me. ‘Thirty.’
‘Thirty?’ I blurt out. ‘But we don’t even know thirty people.’
‘Ben does.’
I stare at her, astonished by this claim that my two-year-old son’s social life has apparently eclipsed my own. ‘Name them,’ I challenge.
So she does. And as she rattles them off, I start groaning like an asthmatic having an attack.
It’s like a hideously inverted version of This is Your Life. Instead of being presented with a much-loved parade of people from my past (each prepped with a suitably hagiographic and quasi-comedic anecdote, paying homage to the Wonder of Me), what I actually get is a pantheon of randoms, dullards, half-acquaintances, and bores (most of whom couldn’t even name me on sight).
