Read Online Mummy Said the F-Word by Fiona Gibson - Free Book Online
Authors: Fiona Gibson
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nothing. With a magnifying glass, you might be able to identify miniscule wriggling legs. They’re that interesting. No one shows any interest in the dandruff until they suspect that one has died, at which point Lola declares that each flake had a name and was loved dearly. Not by Jake, obviously; he asked for the tank to be removed from his room, presumably on hygiene grounds. It now lends an air of professionalism to the nerve centre of cutting-edge journalism.
Although seemingly still alive, our latest hatchlings are unlikely to offer much in the way of engaging company on a Friday night. I run through my list of alternatives. Sam? Not an option. He and Harvey are visiting friends in the Lake District. My assorted mummy-friends? All happily un-dumped. On a Friday night, un-dumped parents book a babysitter and go out to dinner, or snuggle up with a DVD at home. And Millie? Not sure I can face another instalment of her scintillating sex life.
I eye the sea monkeys and swear that they’re gloating.
Get you, Nora-No-Mates, all alone on a Friday night. Go watch your sad-person’s portable telly
. How did this happen? I have lived in London all my life, yet have found myself with no one to play with. I’ve lost touch with most of my old colleagues with whom I’d while away evenings on cheap wine. That’s what happens when you’re the first in your group to have babies. Either I wasn’t able to come out or they’d assume I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask. Anyway, back then, being with Martin and our close circle seemed enough for me. Most of my school friends have relocated to suburban semis or honeysuckle-strewn cottages in the country. Maybe we should have done that – moved on, done something different. I bet none of their husbands have been tempted by after-sales services.
I fish out a soggy Cheerio that Travis must have flung into the tank. God, I hate Friday nights when the kids are at Martin’s. ‘It can’t be all bad,’ Marcia once announced outside school. ‘I guess one good thing about being a single mum is all the time you get to yourself. It’s almost enough to make me want to leave Casper!’ I grinned ferociously, wanting to punch her. I never used to be like this: constantly suppressing violent urges and growling at sea monkeys.
Perhaps I’m turning into my mother.
A copy of
Bambino
is lying on my desk. I pick it up, open it at Harriet Pike’s page and read:
Dear Harriet,
How can I get my life back on track when it feels so empty? I love my kids and I love being their mother, but it’s not all I want to be. I used to have a fun, stimulating job, but gave all that up after having my first baby eight years ago. Since then I have had two more children. The working world where people have real conversations, not poopy-nappy conversations, seems so distant and for ‘other’ people – people with smart shoes and full diaries. I have what my husband calls a ‘little part-time job’, but it doesn’t fulfil me at all.
What can I do? I want something for me, to make me feel young and alive again. This sounds so selfish – it’s not how mothers are meant to feel, is it?
So how are mothers meant to feel? After all, we’re not
just
mothers. Beneath the nit-zapping and homework supervising, we’re still the person we once were. Still the young woman who flirted with strangers and got tiddly on wine.
‘I feel so guilty,’ the woman adds.
Well, don’t, I tell her silently. Stop that right now. You’ve invested nearly a decade in your children’s care and it’s time to do something for you. Yes, I know it’s hard. You say you loved your old job – isn’t there some way back into that world? The door may look closed, but I doubt if it’s secured with an enormous rusting padlock. Give it a nudge. Sign up for a course, or blow the dust from your address book and call up every one of your old colleagues. Let them know that you’re not merely alive and functioning beneath mounds of
Although seemingly still alive, our latest hatchlings are unlikely to offer much in the way of engaging company on a Friday night. I run through my list of alternatives. Sam? Not an option. He and Harvey are visiting friends in the Lake District. My assorted mummy-friends? All happily un-dumped. On a Friday night, un-dumped parents book a babysitter and go out to dinner, or snuggle up with a DVD at home. And Millie? Not sure I can face another instalment of her scintillating sex life.
I eye the sea monkeys and swear that they’re gloating.
Get you, Nora-No-Mates, all alone on a Friday night. Go watch your sad-person’s portable telly
. How did this happen? I have lived in London all my life, yet have found myself with no one to play with. I’ve lost touch with most of my old colleagues with whom I’d while away evenings on cheap wine. That’s what happens when you’re the first in your group to have babies. Either I wasn’t able to come out or they’d assume I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask. Anyway, back then, being with Martin and our close circle seemed enough for me. Most of my school friends have relocated to suburban semis or honeysuckle-strewn cottages in the country. Maybe we should have done that – moved on, done something different. I bet none of their husbands have been tempted by after-sales services.
I fish out a soggy Cheerio that Travis must have flung into the tank. God, I hate Friday nights when the kids are at Martin’s. ‘It can’t be all bad,’ Marcia once announced outside school. ‘I guess one good thing about being a single mum is all the time you get to yourself. It’s almost enough to make me want to leave Casper!’ I grinned ferociously, wanting to punch her. I never used to be like this: constantly suppressing violent urges and growling at sea monkeys.
Perhaps I’m turning into my mother.
A copy of
Bambino
is lying on my desk. I pick it up, open it at Harriet Pike’s page and read:
Dear Harriet,
How can I get my life back on track when it feels so empty? I love my kids and I love being their mother, but it’s not all I want to be. I used to have a fun, stimulating job, but gave all that up after having my first baby eight years ago. Since then I have had two more children. The working world where people have real conversations, not poopy-nappy conversations, seems so distant and for ‘other’ people – people with smart shoes and full diaries. I have what my husband calls a ‘little part-time job’, but it doesn’t fulfil me at all.
What can I do? I want something for me, to make me feel young and alive again. This sounds so selfish – it’s not how mothers are meant to feel, is it?
So how are mothers meant to feel? After all, we’re not
just
mothers. Beneath the nit-zapping and homework supervising, we’re still the person we once were. Still the young woman who flirted with strangers and got tiddly on wine.
‘I feel so guilty,’ the woman adds.
Well, don’t, I tell her silently. Stop that right now. You’ve invested nearly a decade in your children’s care and it’s time to do something for you. Yes, I know it’s hard. You say you loved your old job – isn’t there some way back into that world? The door may look closed, but I doubt if it’s secured with an enormous rusting padlock. Give it a nudge. Sign up for a course, or blow the dust from your address book and call up every one of your old colleagues. Let them know that you’re not merely alive and functioning beneath mounds of
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