More Than Just Mom

by Rebecca Smith

  I get up and tiptoe to the bathroom, hoping that a drink of water might help me settle. But getting out of bed was a mistake; now I’m wide awake, mulling over the pros and cons of trying to apply for a new full-time teaching job.

  Pros:

  1. We need the money. Urgently.

  2. I never intended to be working part time. And I have discovered to my cost that teaching three days a week usually ends up meaning that I have to work twice as hard when I’m in school and I still end up doing all my planning and marking at home. It’s not really half a job.

  3. I can reinvent myself. I can present Hannah Thompson in whichever way I choose to my new colleagues and they won’t know any better. Like, I can become a fitness fanatic or an ambitious career woman – basically, as someone who has got their shit together. You can’t do that when everyone knows that you last exercised in 1999 and your only ambition is to make it through the school day without crying and/or swearing.

  4. I can escape from Miriam Wallace’s power-mad clutches and go back to teaching Biology. She’s never going to renew my contract for next year anyway so I may as well get ahead of an inevitable situation.

  Cons:

  1. There aren’t any jobs out there for Biology teachers. I know this because I check the Times Educational Supplement every week.

  2. Since I’ve been spending more time at home, I’ve been amazed by how much the kids still seem to need me. I thought it would be different when they weren’t tiny but I was wrong. And their issues and worries are way more intense now than when they were toddlers.

  3. I will have to actually apply for a job. I’ll need to dust off my ancient CV and write an application letter and then go to an interview and talk about all the recent developments in schools and honestly, the thought of all that fills me with dread. The bloody Education Secretary can’t keep up with all the changes so how on earth I’m supposed to I have no idea.

  4. I am scared. I am scared that I am going to disappear completely. Just another forty-something woman with a list of predictable and unimaginative titles. Wife. Mother. Teacher. Daughter. Friend. And I love that I am all of those things and I try not to take them for granted – but they aren’t exactly unique. They aren’t the sum total of who I thought I would be.

  The facts are irrefutable. I need to work. I want to work. But I don’t want to lose my soul in the process. Which means that it might be time to begin a whole new chapter of my life. A chapter where I get to play the starring role for a change.

  I clamber into bed and spoon into Nick’s back, feeling a frisson of excitement. I will find something that allows me to explore my own interests and challenges me and reminds me that I am more than just a forty-three-year-old wife and mother with a part-time job. And I will be a fabulous role model for Dylan, Scarlet and Benji and they will all see me with new eyes and respect me as Hannah, not just Mum.

  And while I am pushing my boundaries and learning new things about myself, and exploring my hidden talents, I will also make a shitload of money and everything will be great.

  I drift off to sleep feeling more content than I have done in ages. This is going to be the start of a whole new me.

  Chapter 6

  I look again at the computer screen and try to resist the urge to throw it onto the floor. Surely there must be some kind of mistake? This can’t actually be right; the figures just don’t add up.

  Sighing, I press the back arrow and go back to the start of the online form.

  ‘Maybe we entered the details in the wrong place,’ I say to Nick, who is sitting next to me and looking as stressed as I feel. ‘Let’s do it again, really slowly this time.’

  ‘We must have done,’ agrees Nick. ‘That amount of money isn’t enough to feed a newborn baby, never mind a teenage boy.’

  We both lean forward and read the instructions on the screen for the student finance calculator. Behind us, Dylan cranes over our shoulders.

  When does your course start?

  That’s easy. I click the option for this September and move onto the next page.

  What type of student are you?

  ‘A lazy one?’ suggests Nick. ‘A student who needs to get a job?’

  ‘Hey!’ protests Dylan. ‘I have a job, thanks very much. And I’d like to see you dealing with stupid customers who are asking you for the gazillionth time if they can have an item for free when it won’t scan through the till.’

  ‘He’s going to be a full-time UK student,’ I say, clicking the box. ‘Next question.’

  How much are your tuition fees per year?

  ‘Too much,’ snaps Nick. ‘Honestly, is he really going to be getting nine grand’s worth of education? I don’t think so!’ He turns to me. ‘We spent most of our time either in bed or in the student bar, remember?’

  ‘You might have done,’ I reply, primly. ‘I seem to recall that I attended virtually every lecture and handed in every assignment on time and took my higher education incredibly seriously.’

  Nick laughs. ‘In what alternate universe? You were as slack as I was, Hannah – don’t try to rewrite history!’

  I pause, thinking back to my student days. ‘I do remember a fair bit of shopping for clothes,’ I say. ‘And nights out. And afternoon naps to recover from the nights out. And sitting around watching kids’ television – we seemed to do a lot of that.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t like that now,’ Dylan tells us. ‘Not now we’re all going to be leaving university with sixty grand’s worth of debt.’

  I pale. ‘We bought our first house for sixty thousand pounds.’

  ‘I’m not going to be wasting time watching television and partying, am I?’ Our son is sounding suspiciously sanctimonious. ‘Oh no. It’s not like the olden days, you know. Back in the nineties, you guys had it made. Everything cost five pence and there were no pressures. Not like it is for us.’

  ‘Less of the olden days,’ grunts Nick. ‘And we had our fair share of pressure.’

  Dylan smirks. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, getting their attention back to the task at hand. ‘Can we just get on with this, please? I do have things to be doing today, other than freaking out about how we’re going to afford for you to ever leave home.’

  Where will you live while studying?

  ‘Who would choose to live with their parents?’ asks Dylan in disbelief, reading the options over my shoulder. ‘Surely that’s the entire point of going to uni in the first place? To get away from you lot.’

  ‘In that case, we can stop worrying,’ says Nick, his face brightening. ‘There’s plenty of things you can do in September, if leaving home is your main priority. You can join the army, or emigrate, or move in with Granny, or—’

  ‘He isn’t doing any of those things,’ I interject. ‘He’s going to university and he’s going to get a good degree and then he can get a decent job doing something that he loves and he’ll be able to afford to be an independent, fully functioning and worthwhile member of society who is capable of giving back to his community while also not forgetting that it was us who gave him such an excellent start in life and he therefore needs to spend every Christmas and holiday here at home with us and not with anyone else.’

  Nick and Dylan stare at me as I stop for breath.

  ‘That’s asking quite a lot from a degree, Hannah,’ Nick tells me. ‘If it can do all that then maybe it is worth nine grand a year, after all.’

  I click the correct option and we move on to the next page. And this is where my heart rate starts to race, because now we’re getting down to business.

  What is your annual household income?

  I pull two pieces of paper towards me and once again look at the figures at the bottom of each page. Then I pick up my phone and for the third time today, add up our total salaries. Nick does the same and when we are agreed on the amount I type it onto the screen. We go through the remaining questions about dependents and additional income and then we arrive at the final page, which give
s us two numbers. And despite the fact that I am crossing all my fingers and toes, it is the same two numbers that we had last time.

  There is no mistake. Dylan will get a loan for his tuition fees, but his maintenance loan isn’t even enough to pay for his accommodation.

  I drop my head into my hands.

  ‘How do they think kids are supposed to go to university when they literally can’t afford to eat?’ I moan. ‘It’s beyond ridiculous.’

  ‘They expect them to work,’ says Nick. ‘And they expect parents to pay up.’

  ‘I know I’ll need to get a job when I’m there,’ says Dylan, his voice quiet. ‘I’m not expecting you to give me any money.’

  I look up at him and smile. ‘Of course we’ll help you out,’ I say. ‘But you’re right. You’re going to need to fund some of this too.’

  There is silence for a moment as we all consider the facts. I’ve been talking to Nick about this for a few weeks, ever since Dylan firmed up his university place on UCAS and we could see how much his accommodation is going to cost. The deficit between income and outgoings is much bigger than I anticipated, though, and there’s no way that Dylan can find it all by himself.

  ‘Maybe he’ll fail his A Levels and won’t be able to go?’ suggests Nick eventually, trying to make his voice light.

  ‘I’m standing right here!’ Dylan tells him. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.’

  Nick twists round and puts his hand on Dylan’s arm. ‘I’m kidding,’ he tells him. ‘You let us worry about the money and concentrate on passing those exams, okay?’

  Dylan nods slowly. ‘The uni has got a Facebook page. I can probably use that to start figuring out where the best jobs are. That way I’ll be ahead of the rush when we all start.’

  ‘That sounds like a great idea,’ I say, forcing myself to smile. ‘And in the meantime, Dad and I will look at our budget and let you know how much we can give you each month.’

  Dylan steps forward, giving me a quick hug before loping out of the room. His phone is already out of his pocket, his thumbs speeding over the screen.

  ‘Oh my god.’ I flop down onto the table as soon as he’s left the room. ‘This is a genuine, arsing disaster. Everything just seems to be going wrong at the moment.’

  Although on the plus side, my lip has almost cleared up and the scarring appears to be minimal. Dr Google has reassuringly informed me that the numbness will almost certainly pass with time and at least I’m not going to have to find the money for plastic surgery, which is definitely something to celebrate.

  ‘Calm down,’ Nick says, standing up and moving across the kitchen. I watch as he fills the kettle and pulls two mugs off the shelf. In a crisis, we drink tea, just like the rest of the population of the British Isles. And if we’re out of tea then we just have to make do with wine. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Were you even listening last week when I told you how much he needs for food and stuff? And that was before we knew how pathetically small his loan was going to be.’

  Nick turns to face me, looking a bit sheepish. ‘Was that when I was watching Game of Thrones?’ he asks. ‘Because you started talking just as it got to a good bit and there’s a remote possibility that I wasn’t listening.’

  I glare at him. ‘Well, let me outline our financial situation once more, for those of you in the back who were too busy fantasizing about scantily clad women riding dragons.’ I stand up and rest my hands on the table. ‘We need to give Dylan at least three hundred pounds each month. Plus, in two years’ time, we’re going to have to do the same for Scarlet. And as it stands, I do not know where that extra money is coming from because we don’t have a secret stash of savings hidden under the bed and every time I think we might be able to put some money away, we seem to have a new disaster.’

  I hold up my hand and count off on my fingers. ‘The car breaking down. The oven deciding that it didn’t feel like actually heating up. Dogger hurting her leg and needing the emergency vet, which cost us the equivalent of two week’s food shopping. The school trip that Benji needs to go on unless we want him to be the only child in his class who doesn’t attend.’

  I pause for breath while Nick gawps at me. ‘Winter is coming, Nick,’ I tell him, as dramatically as I can. ‘Winter is coming and we don’t have any warm coats.’

  There is silence while my husband digests my words.

  ‘Three hundred quid a month?’ he says eventually. ‘Are you sure?’

  I nod and we stare at each other across the kitchen.

  ‘We’re going to have to rethink a few things around here then.’ He hands me a cup of tea, his fingers brushing against mine. ‘We knew that this day was coming, Hannah. You said it yourself a few weeks ago. We need to increase our earnings.’

  He means my earnings, and he’s right. I need to earn a full-time wage.

  I need a plan.

  Chapter 7

  I spend days brainstorming ideas for a new career path, letting my mind explore the sensible, the wild and the downright obscure. On Saturday night, Benji has a sleepover at Logan’s house and Dylan is in his room watching god-knows-what on his laptop and talking to god-knows-who on his phone. Scarlet is diligently ploughing on with the ever-increasing amount of homework that she’s been given (I really think I might need to have a quiet word with her teachers; it’s unacceptable how much work that child is getting at the moment). So Nick and I have the kitchen to ourselves, which is a rare event. I’m intending to wait until after we’ve eaten to talk to him about my new plan, but just as we clear away the plates, my mobile pings with a text from Logan’s mum.

  That’s her genuine contact name on my phone, along with Nina’s mum and Franco’s mum. And I am very aware that I don’t exist as Hannah in the lives of these people – I am Dylan/Scarlet/Benji’s mum, despite the fact that I have shared some of my most traumatic parenting situations with them while waiting in the school playground at the end of the day. We are all women who have been relegated to the status of ‘someone’s mum’ from the moment that our children started making friends with other kids.

  Benji wants to come home. His teddy’s arm has fallen off & I think it’s upset him a bit x

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ I read the text aloud to Nick and we stare at each other for a moment. ‘Teddy’s arm?’

  Nick shakes his head. ‘I sewed it back on after the last time. It must have come loose.’

  I slam the dishwasher closed and wait for a second to hear the tell-tale gushing of water. A new dishwasher is not in my budget right now.

  ‘I think you’re missing the point,’ I tell Nick. ‘He’s going into Year Six in September and then he’ll be starting at Westhill Academy before we know it. How is he going to cope in a world of constant fights and drug-dealing and rampant sex when his teddy’s arm falling off sends him into a meltdown?’

  Nick raises his eyebrows at me. ‘I think you’re being a little bit dramatic there, Hannah. He’s got a whole year to grow up and anyway, it’s secondary school, not prison.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ I mutter darkly, pulling my shoes off the rack next to the door. ‘You’re not there all week.’

  ‘Neither are you,’ Nick points out, slightly unreasonably. ‘I’ll drive – I want to check if Betty’s new windscreen wipers work.’

  He hasn’t got a clue. He doesn’t see the kids scurrying down our school corridors like there’s a herd of zombies hot on their heels. He isn’t the one who has to lurk outside the girls’ toilets, ready to catch the smokers red-handed. He isn’t here after school when Scarlet and Dylan (although mostly Scarlet, to be honest) regale us with terrifying stories of crime and punishment that never make it as far as the staff room. And Benji is our baby. It was only two minutes ago that he couldn’t wear shoes without Velcro.

  I yell up the stairs, telling the older two that we’ll be back soon, and then we head out into the dark. It’s a clear night without a cloud in the sky and the stars
are out in force. I stand for a second, wondering when the world got so big.

  The sound of Betty roaring to life jolts me back to the task in hand. I clamber into the Land Rover and we rattle our way up the road, the heater making a complete song and dance about being turned on full. It clearly has little man syndrome because it certainly isn’t producing anything even vaguely warming. Nick flicks the wipers on and they manage two half-hearted swipes of the glass before freezing in position across the windscreen and I have to endure the rest of the journey listening to him mutter about how he just can’t understand it and he fitted them perfectly and he read the instruction manual and watched a YouTube video and there’s no reason at all why they shouldn’t be working.

  I love my husband very much but when he gets started on the topic of Land Rover maintenance I am sometimes tempted to shove his diff lock where the sun doesn’t shine.

  We get to Logan’s house and his mother opens the door, depositing a teary and rather subdued-looking Benji onto the front step.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum!’ he says, the instant that he sees me. ‘I just felt weird and you said to call you if I wasn’t okay.’

  I pull him into a hug and Logan’s mum nods understandingly at me over the top of his head.

  Oh god. He should be sorry. She probably thinks that he’s a complete wimp and that I have failed in my duty to provide him with the life skills that he should have acquired by the ripe old age of ten. She’ll tell all the other mums and they’ll mock me behind my back, saying that I baby him because he’s my last child and I’m incapable of letting him grow up.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘And you don’t need to be sorry.’

  Logan’s mum hands me his rucksack. ‘I think all his things are in there. We’ve put Teddy’s arm in a sling but it’s possible that he’s going to need a bit of surgery.’

  I look gratefully at her and raise my eyebrows. ‘Kids, hey?’

  She smiles. ‘I know – and we haven’t even started on the teenage years with Logan yet! Speaking of which, I saw your Scarlet walking out of the park yesterday morning when I was coming back from yoga. She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Have you thought about sending her photo off to one of those modelling agencies?’