#Toots

by Linh Le James

  I nod in silence, a tad miffed by her question. ‘Is it really what I want?’ Is Charlotte saying I look haggard and chubby? I contemplate defending my choices and proclaiming with passion how children bring you unconditional love and make giving up everything else in your life worthwhile. But Molly was teething last night, Calpol didn’t work, and I was at my wits’ end when both girls got up before six this morning. I wouldn’t sound convincing right now.

  ‘These are the best years of my life. You might call me selfish, but I don’t want to waste them on anybody else. Guys and embryos alike. I finally found freedom, and I’m not ready to give it up.’ Charlotte defiantly stabs an olive with a toothpick and rolls it on a paper napkin to absorb the oil before gobbling it.

  ‘Are you still seeing Liam?’

  Liam-the-married-man was a sore subject between us toots: Charlotte would dump him several times a year, each time causing herself bouts of depression. I begged my friend to leave the love rat till I was blue in the face. Charlotte ended up hiding whenever she got back with Liam. We even had a huge argument the time I caught them together when she was supposedly sick and missed Asha’s birthday party to canoodle with the cheater.

  ‘Nope. It’s been over since last year. I meant to tell you. I have a fabulous hypnotherapist with whom I’ve been making excellent progress, bringing the focus back on myself. I date a lot, for fun. If the right guy comes along, fine. If not, I’m still having a good time. But I won’t settle for average. If I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right.’ Charlotte leans towards me and whispers confidentially, ‘I do have this thing with my building super in New York. He’s been tinkering with my pipes for a few months now. He’s only twenty-two. The sex is mind-blowing. Cougar, right?’ She laughs gaily.

  ‘I’m happy for you.’ I munch on my salad and digest it along with Charlotte’s news unenthusiastically.

  ‘Enough about me! How is it going with Scott?’

  Scott. Cheating bastard Scott. I consider opening my heart and blurting out my suspicions of his infidelity. Perhaps it would be like old times again. We would dissect the clues that led to my speculations. Charlotte would ask relevant questions and give her own unique insight onto the matter, and we would devise an action plan to strike back and establish the truth without losing dignity.

  ‘I guess all relationships have their ups and downs. It’s been hard not losing our identity both as a couple and as individuals since we’ve become parents.’ I swallow hard. The worries I’ve been bottling up inside swell into a lump in my throat and my eyes begin to sting.

  Charlotte isn’t listening. She’s riveted to her phone. She’s watching a YouTube how-to of her NY superintendent. Her super, wearing a tight tank top, low-slung jeans showing off a hint of six-pack packed in Armani trunks and a tool belt, demonstrates how to flush a radiator system. Fit indeed. I guess women streaming the video might be more interested in his body than his plumbing tips.

  ‘Sorry, Jess, you were saying? Isn’t he cute? He already has over 1000 subscribers to his channel.’ She likes then shares the video with her friends on Facebook.

  ‘I was saying how good things are with Scott. He’s been promoted. He’s a wonderful father. He works really hard, stays in the office late and all that. He’s taken up kickboxing, really enjoys it.’

  I tip the rest of the bottle into my glass without offering Charlotte any, ‘Yep. Just like in the Lego song. Everything is awesome.’

  Jess

  Reclaim yourself – Stage 1 – Socialize.

  Sunday. Cheeky Monkeys Soft Play. 11 am.

  Emily texted me again this morning – something about Carla’s tattoo. They must have been out drinking again last night. She surely meant Lou’s silly new pentagram tattoo. Those girls are like kids when they’re together. I already have two of my own, I can’t look after any more. I’ll give her a ring when I get back home.

  Lunch with Charlotte was a disaster. I felt there was no connection left between us. I didn’t get any sympathy for my struggles as a mother, and I couldn’t face opening up about my doubts on Scott’s faithfulness. Life took us on different paths and there is no fire left in the friendship that can be rekindled.

  Today’s reunion brings higher expectations. I’m meeting Asha, my second-best toot after Charlotte from my uni days. Asha was not as much of a party girl as Charlotte, but she was non-judgemental, honest and highly dependable. I used to frequently confide in her. Charlotte was the vivacious one, whereas Asha was reasonable one. She got married relatively young, had two boys, and moved up north for a while. She only returned to Berkshire last year.

  I could never make friends with the stuck-up mums from Mia’s French class. Asha, on the other hand, would make the perfect mummy friend. Why didn’t I think of her before?

  Asha’s appearance stupefies me. She gained about three stones since we last met. So much for Facebook head shots. As we get chatting, Asha tells me she gave up her job to be a full-time mum, and she’s thinking about staying at home until the children are in their teens.

  ‘We’re thinking about another baby. I’d love to have three kids. Even four.’

  ‘Really? I’m impressed. I can barely cope with two,’ I admit, nonplussed at Asha’s either foolish bravery or masochistic tendencies.

  ‘It gets easier. Yours are still little. Mine are all grown up now. Although they’ll always be my babies. I still breastfeed Ridesh.’

  ‘Isn’t he fou— er, fabulous?’ I catch myself just in time. I was going to confirm whether Ridesh is indeed four years old.

  ‘Extended breastfeeding has so many benefits; I’m not planning on stopping any time soon. Breastmilk is incredibly nutritious – it boosts their immune system and their brain development. I mean, look at them. They’re so healthy and strong!’

  Asha’s two boys are running wild in the under-3 toddler enclosure, almost crashing into Mia as she tries to make her way to the slide.

  ‘Ridesh! Rajesh! Stop running!’ Asha scolds unconvincingly. She sighs, pensive. ‘I’d love a little girl. I could dress her in pink, plait her hair. What about you? Don’t you want a boy?’

  Her sons are picking balls out of the ball pit and throwing them viciously at each other, just missing Mia’s head.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I decline internally. I reply out loud, ‘I guess it would be nice to have one of each. If Scott had his way, we’d be trying for another one just so he can have a boy. Besides, I’d definitely have to give up work if we had three.’

  ‘Ridesh! Rajesh! Enough now!’ Asha admonishes in vain. ‘Funny, I didn’t picture you as one of those career women. I don’t believe anybody can give their children all the motherly love they need if they have a full-time job. I’d do it again tomorrow. The whole lot. Carrying the baby inside, feeling it move for the first time, watching my tummy grow – wasn’t it all wonderful?’

  I remember the constant spewing and back pain, Mia’s brutal kicks which woke me up throughout the night. No. Pregnancy was anything but wonderful.

  ‘Even the delivery was incredible. I had two water births, no drugs at all, only chamomile to help with tension. Crystals and gemstones were life-savers for labour pain. Rajesh was in no rush to come out – it took him 24 hours – but Ridesh shot out in 30 minutes. The moment I held them for the first time, it was just magical.’

  I recall Molly’s labour: induction, failed epidural, sucking in vain on gas and air, screaming like a possessed woman straight out of The Exorcist, all topped off by a nasty episiotomy. In a final gush of guts and blood, out popped little Molly. Magical it was not.

  When did Asha turn into a jam-making, bread-baking, organic-veg-growing hippie? Bet she uses the word ‘holistic’ a lot and doesn’t own a microwave.

  ‘Hey, I saw Charlotte yesterday. I had not seen her for a while.’

  ‘Really? You guys used to be so tight in Uni, you, Scott and Charl. I thought you’d be living in each other’s pockets. Let’s do something all together next time. Ridesh! Do
not throw the balls in the bin!’

  The boys are merciless. They are now scooping balls up as ammunition in their T-shirts and running around, aiming at anything in sight and screaming like Sioux warriors. I move Mia out of the balls’ trajectory. The boys finally move on to climbing up the slides, blocking the way for other toddlers, and sliding down head first.

  ‘Maybe they could play out there where the bigger kids should be? It’s supposed to be toddlers only here,’ I suggest timidly, not wanting to impose on Asha nor let transpire I find her authority deplorable.

  ‘Let me try to keep them in our corner.’

  Asha attempts to interest the boys in building a den with soft blocks. They soon bash into the bricks like a pair of Tasmanian devils. She only manages to have five minutes’ peace by purchasing two light-up balls from the toy vending machine, forcing me to follow with Mia screaming in jealousy.

  We’ve been so busy dealing with the children that we haven’t even had the chance to have a cup of coffee.

  ‘Let’s get them some food, so they can settle for a minute and we can have a cuppa.’

  Unfortunately, lunch turns out to be another source of stress.

  Asha orders her sons nuggets and chips – a surprising choice for the crunchy mum I thought she was. Mia refuses her sausages and mash, and bawls, pointing at Rajesh’s plate, ‘Siips! Siiips!! Mia want siiips!!!’

  Molly, who was perfectly happy with her dish, starts wailing as soon as she notices her sister’s distress. The easiest option for my ears and sanity -though not the best parenting strategy- is to purchase another portion of nuggets and chips.

  Mia spots Ridesh’s apple and blackcurrant Fruit Shoot and pushes her water bottle away in anger, soaking the table. ‘Puple dink! Puple diink!’

  If I stay at the table one more minute, I’ll hurl my latte at someone. I get up to buy two Fruit Shoot, quite unfairly cursing Asha under my breath.

  Mia is still crying her eyes out when I come back with the juices. ‘Fuck’s sake! Mia! What’s wrong now?’

  Rajesh pipes up. ‘Mummy! The lady said a baddy word!’.

  Ridesh mocks me, pointing his finger at my face. ‘Baddy word! Baddy word! Baddy word!’

  I reach the end of my tether when a ketchup-covered pea Ridesh flicks at his brother smacks me square in the eye.

  The socializing venture, at least with Asha, I decide right there and then, is never to be repeated.

  ‘Asha, maybe we should try next time without kids.’

  Jess

  Reclaim yourself – Stage 2 – Shop.

  Monday. Broadway Shopping Centre. 10 am.

  I am thrilled about the Indulgence Day ahead. It’s going to make up for the debacle of Stage 1 – Socializing.

  At least I can’t fail at shopping.

  First stop, Debenhams for a quick cappuccino and chocolate muffin for breakfast. Aaah, the bliss of having the day off with no children and nothing to do but spoil myself.

  The new nanny, Bertha, arrived this morning. She was introduced by the agency as a candidate with ‘an impressive background including three decades of experience’, which didn’t escape my notice. She seems older than the hills. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back tightly in a military bun, and gold-rimmed round glasses perched on her nose. When I beckoned the girls over, they just stood rooted to the spot, mouths hanging open, dumbfounded by the new arrival. Even Scott seemed intimidated. I could not picture Bertha jumping around to ‘Incy Wincy Spider’. On the other hand, I could envision her disciplining the children and taming Mia’s tantrums. Good. Bertha might just be a godsent Jo Frost in disguise.

  I drain my coffee and go for a wander around the beauty counters. I breathe in deeply, ridiculously excited. Nothing beats the smell of lovely new cosmetics and clothes. I can feel myself turning into a goddess just by being surrounded by gorgeousness. I will emerge at the end of today a fresh version of myself, polished and refined.

  I swiftly add to my basket a new apple-red Dior lipstick (very screen siren), an extortionate Lancôme face cream (I like the sound of ‘youth-activating’), and a small Rhubarb & Rose Molton Brown hand cream (hands give away age). A pair of faux leather black leggings with a tummy panel (to bring out the flat-stomached rock chick in me) and a deep plunge bodysuit (move over, Doutzen Kroes) are swiftly thrown on top.

  All this is coming straight out of Mia’s and Molly’s wedding fund. At this rate, Mia’s party will be held at the local social, and catering will be done sausage rolls and crisps from the Poundshop. There’s no point agonizing over it, though – the girls are not three yet, which gives me plenty of time to save. Besides, the little rascals owe me big-time for all these sleepless nights.

  Jess

  Reclaim Yourself – Stage 3 – Pamper Yourself.

  Whitney Hotel Resort & Spa. 2 pm.

  I move on to the Whitney Hotel Resort & Spa, where I splurge on a relaxing half-day package including a hot stone massage, which I upgrade from twenty-five minutes to fifty, and full use of the facilities. I opt for the champagne afternoon tea as a late lunch (even goddesses need nourishment).

  The next few hours, during which I sip peppermint tea, read magazines, and try a few random passwords to break into Scott’s email, are blissful. The massage is divine, and the warm scones with clotted cream are just about the scrummiest I have ever tasted. By the time I leave the spa, I feel brand new.

  I come home early to find the house very neat and tidy, as though the girls haven’t played with any of their toys today.

  In the lounge, Mia and Molly sit cross-legged on the floor. The look on their little faces says ‘Save us from the scary lady, Mummy!’ Bertha is teaching them the alphabet. They are still on the letter A.

  ‘Jessica. Good to see you. I have a few things to go through with you.’ Bertha starts reading notes from her pad, all businesslike. ‘First of all, I strongly suggest removing all soothers from the house; they are not recommended beyond six months. Needless to say, Mia and Molly are too old to be using them, and the possible repercussions for their speech development and their teeth alignment outweigh whatever—’

  ‘-The dummies?’ I interrupt. Bertha might just as well have urged me to cut my right foot off. ‘But the girls need them! For comfort!’

  Everybody knows that it’s clearly harder for tots to cry when they have something in their mouth. And surely a dummy isn’t as bad as a lollipop.

  ‘I understand,’ Bertha articulates patronizingly. ‘Young mothers tend to rely on crutches like dummies rather than teach their children emotional skills such as self-soothing.’

  Did she say, ‘young mother’? I am uncertain whether to take it as a compliment (wrinkle-free mother) or not (inexperienced, inept mother).

  ‘Emotional intelligence is the best gift you can bestow on your little ones. You should think about it that way.’ Bertha gestures for me to follow her to the kitchen. ‘Now, under my care, unnecessary sugar, salt, fat and additives are banned from the children’s diet.’

  Bertha has found the kiddie bribe stash and has piled up in a corner the Kinder eggs, Milkybar buttons, mini Smarties and other treats.

  ‘Raisins are not bad!’ I cry out, feeling strongly about defending myself and the Peppa Pig raisin boxes.

  ‘Not as bad as chocolate, but still full of sugar. Natural sugar, but still sugar.’ Bertha points at another stack, made up of bags of crisps, mostly my favourite Walkers. ‘Salt, fat – additives that have been linked to ADHD.’

  ‘The girls don’t eat them! They’re mine!’ I grab the first multipack on the pile and put my arms protectively around it. It is unfortunately the six-pack of Pom Bears, and Bertha doesn’t hide her disbelief.

  Unyielding, she marches to the American fridge-freezer and opens it solemnly. ‘I have sorted the fridge. The acceptable foods are on the top shelf, the barely acceptable on the middle shelf, and the non-acceptable on the lower shelf.’

  On the top shelf is all of Scott’s stuff – his cottage cheese
, flaxseed oil, bags of salads, meats. On the middle and bottom shelves are the children’s meals and mine, including the chicken nuggets, the chocolate puddings and the ketchup. Defiantly, I move the strawberry mousse pots from the lower shelf to the middle one. Anything that contains one of your five a day must be moderately healthy.

  Bertha must have spent the day going through the cupboards. Is she going to pull out my pink furry cufflinks or my secret wine stash and shake her head? I refuse to find out. I have no desire to hear a sermon about the contents of the freezer (mostly ice cream).

  It dawns on me that Scott is going to walk through the door any minute now. He will crucify me if he sees all the junk food!

  I push the new nanny out of the flat. ‘Thank you, Bertha, but we’re expecting company this evening. You need to leave – go home and rest!’

  ‘Jessica! I haven’t been through the safety of the house yet,’ Bertha protests. ‘The medicines and cosmetics in your bathroom! The cleaning products in the utility room with no baby lock!’

  After a physical struggle, I close the door on Bertha.

  I wink at Mia. ‘Good job we chucked her out. Now, let’s share some Pom Bears and put everything back where it should be before Daddy gets home.’

  Chapter 9

  Moscow Mule

  Moscow Mule

  Ingredients

  15 ml lime juice

  60 ml vodka

  150 ml ginger beer

  Slice of lime

  Squeeze the lime juice into a glass.

  Add 3–5 ice cubes, then pour in the vodka and fill with cold ginger beer.