Why Mummy Swears

by Gill Sims

  I think extra salt was possibly rubbed in Simon’s wounds by both Peter and Jane excitedly babbling that it was the best holiday they had ever been on, much better than the usual boring holidays, and talking about it non-stop ever since we got back.

  I have taken to mainly ignoring Simon, who keeps asking if I have told my work colleagues about the children yet, and keep pointing out to him that it is none of his fucking business actually. The only thing anyone at work in fact said was to admire my tan (which is rather good, as it happens. I know we aren’t supposed to tan anymore, and I am deeply irresponsible for doing so, but I can’t help it! I feel so much better when I am brown. It’s like the difference between a big lump of pallid, unbaked dough and a lovely golden, just-baked loaf. Of course, it is always problematic trying to explain to the children on holiday why I am slapping Factor 50 on them, and basting myself in sun oil like a rotisserie chicken, but luckily they are accustomed to my ‘Do as I say, not as I do strictures’).

  Lydia did remark wistfully while we making coffee that she did envy my holiday, I had come back looking so brown and relaxed, whereas she had spent the best part of £2,000 on a week at Center Parcs with her family and felt anything but relaxed. I wished I could tell her that the reason I had had such an enjoyable holiday wasn’t actually because I was the carefree childless career woman she thought I was, but rather because I had just gone without my bloody husband, so I was already one child down and didn’t have to listen to him moaning and obsessively reading TripAdvisor while shouting at everybody not to drink the water. Actually, I was slightly disappointed that despite using the tap water to brush my teeth on several occasions when I forgot to use the bottled water, I had not come down with a fast-track weight-loss bout of the squits – though obviously, having the squits on holiday with two children would be less than ideal, though there was an unfortunate incident one night when I thought I was successfully working a rather chic little monochrome look, in a white shirt and black trousers, but when I left the children at the table to quickly pop up to the room because I had forgotten my phone, a rather angry German lady obviously mistook me for a waitress and starting shouting at me about something in German. All I could work out was that it was something to do with food, from the dramatic sign language she was forced to employ, because I did Latin at school, not Spanish, and so I was forced to fall back on my only German phrase of ‘Ich habe durchfall!’ On being informed I had diarrhoea, she did at least lose interest in whatever she had wanted me to tell her, and shooed me away with an expression of disgust.

  Obviously I couldn’t tell Lydia about any of this, though. I wonder if maybe I could just suddenly announce I have adopted some children. People adopt children of all sorts of ages, don’t they? Angelina Jolie seems to, anyway. Maybe that would be the solution to my lies. Or I could invent a tragically deceased family member and claim they were orphans that I had taken in, like Oliver Twist. I fear both of these scenarios would involve a lot of questions, though. It must have been much easier for people to undo lying about not having children back in Victorian times, when you could just acquire orphans willy-nilly and no one thought anything of it. Look at Anne of Green Gables! Marilla and Matthew just go off and get an orphan and no one says a word apart from Mrs Rachel Lynde, and only then because she likes to look on the dark side and thinks the orphan might murder them! Fuck it, I’m sure I will think of something. I could use all the time I currently spend Not Talking to Simon to come up with a solution.

  MAY

  Monday, 1 May

  Oh, super-duper, excellent, marvellous (I am trying to be slightly less foul-mouthed, after a pained note home from Peter’s teacher when he stubbed his toe and declared, ‘ARGH, twatdiddling fucksticks, that bloody HURTS!’ I am obviously replacing it with sarcasm. I don’t know how long these good intentions will last, however. I don’t feel myself when I’m not swearing). There is a new headmistress at the school, who is trying to introduce some new ways of doing things, and apparently, after consultation with the Pupil Council, everyone thinks it might be rather lovely if Sports Day involved a ‘strawberries-and-cream stall’.

  There is a part of me that thinks, yes, yes, that would be rather lovely, it would totally tie in my shady-hat, floaty-frock vision of what Sports Day should be like, and there is another part of me that just thinks, ‘OH FUCK RIGHT OFF!’ (see? I tried, I just can’t do it. Swearing is a part of me!) because she thinks it will be a super fundraiser for the PTA, if I could just organise that and make it happen. Yes, because I’ve got fuck all else to do, haven’t I? I mean, it’s not like I’ve got a job or a family or a fucking marriage going through some sort of midlife crisis or a complex web of lies to maintain to my colleagues, is it? Oh no, what a marvellous fucking idea, Mrs Compton. I’ll just throw together a little strawberries-and-cream stall to further your vision, shall I? Also, I don’t buy for one second that the Pupil Council came up with this idea on their own (in my opinion the Pupil Council wields far too much power at school. Why must the children be consulted? Why can’t they just be told what to do, like in my day? Oh God, I’m showing my age again! ‘In My Day!’ I’ll be demanding they bring back National Service soon), because what child, when asked for ideas to enhance Sports Day, would choose something involving fruit? If they wanted an ice-cream van or a Haribo stall, I might be convinced that the hand of the Pupil Council was in this, but a strawberries-and-cream stall is plainly the headmistress’s idea, one she has somehow persuaded the Pupil Council to endorse.

  I do not have time for this right now. Apart from anything else, with all the summer activities coming up, it struck me that I was going to need some plausible reason for taking a number of Friday afternoons off. Alan keeps asking if I went to see his dentist and got that crown sorted, so that excuse is out. Ditto the Women’s Troubles. What do people do on Friday afternoons? My father quite often took Friday afternoons off to play golf. Maybe I could take up golf. Maybe not. Alan and James are both keen golfers but usually play on a Saturday morning, so as the world has moved on from the days when one could claim a Friday afternoon’s golfing WAS working as you were ‘networking’ etc., that probably wouldn’t work. Also, then they would expect me to talk about golf and possibly even go and play golf with them, and a) I know nothing about golf, b) I have no desire to play golf and c) I can’t even imagine Simon’s face if I announced I was off to play golf on a Saturday morning. Though I’m almost tempted to try it, just to see if his head finally explodes!

  So all in all, throwing a strawberries-and-cream stall into the mix as well is not exactly filling me with joy. Maybe I could just delegate it. Katie would be good at something like that. Or Kiki with two Ks. Strawberries are very photogenic, though it might involve too much actual organising and not enough time standing round taking selfies for her Instagram Stories for Kiki. I will send them both an email, suggesting it would be just the job for them, and then I shall wash my hands of the entire affair.

  Saturday, 13 May

  For reasons known only to herself, Jessica decided that the best way to celebrate her forty-sixth birthday was to bid us all to a family lunch. Sometimes I suspect the only thing that Jessica and I have in common is our unshakeable conviction that one day my children will be able to behave normally in public. Personally, I would rather have spent the day putting pins in my eyes. I am knackered. The au pair agency has not yet sent anyone else, and Juliette’s yoghurt pots are quite forgiven. In the six weeks she was with us I had forgotten how much harder it is when you feel like you are constantly running on the spot to catch up. I almost rang her yesterday and begged her to come back, and to just bring Pascal – and bugger the sheets, they could shag all they liked, as long as she could pick the kids up from school in between the bonk fests.

  Simon has reverted to working completely to rule as far as housework and childcare are concerned, and we are still barely speaking. He was only dragged along today under sufferance because Jessica rang him and wittered at him until he agreed
to come to make her shut up.

  Jessica seems to have given up her idea that Natalia’s sole purpose in life is to impregnate herself with our father’s essence and bear him a child, and the two of them have apparently got quite pally, so the Family Lunch was for all of us (except Mum, obviously, who was in Yorkshire, probably still mourning her sullied gravy jug).

  Things didn’t go well. Peter was incensed at being removed from the house on a day when new Ninjago episodes were being released, and Jane apparently was having her human rights abused again by my thwarting her plans to spend the day Facetiming Sophie. Simon was just disgruntled at being removed from his shed and made to go into the World of People, but Simon is always disgruntled about that. He was unimpressed by being made to remove his hideous old fleece as well, and despite it being a gloriously sunny day, insisted on shivering theatrically at frequent intervals. I think it was because he had had to take his fleece off, but on the other hand it could have been because of the ongoing frosty atmosphere still festering between us, as we sat on opposite sides of the table and glared at each other.

  Everyone else had already arrived when we got there, perhaps in a strategic move to try and bag a seat as far from my children as possible, but alas, despite their foresight, my precious moppets were not to allow them to get off that easily.

  Unfortunately, the school had had another instalment of Living and Growing the previous week, and the children were keen to impart their new-found knowledge to the family.

  ‘Grandpa, did you know about condoms?’ enquired Peter in a clear and carrying voice as soon as he sat down.

  ‘You should always use a condom!’ Jane informed him. ‘You should always use a condom because of diseases!’

  ‘And babies!’ chimed in Peter.

  ‘Though, Grandpa, did you know that if you do it in a lady’s bottom, you can’t get a baby like that?’ Peter added helpfully. ‘Natalia, is that why you don’t have any children?’

  Natalia spluttered something in Russian that sounded unrepeatable.

  ‘Sorry, Natalia, I didn’t hear you. Is it because of condoms or doing sex in your bottom, Natalia?’ asked Peter.

  Persephone and Gulliver were agog and wide-eyed during this exchange.

  ‘Some diseases make your willy fall off!’ Jane announced. ‘I hope Grandpa’s willy hasn’t fallen off,’ she said to Natalia, anxiously. ‘And that he uses a condom, because he has had lots of wives and probably had sex with them all. Have you had sex with lots of other men, Natalia?’

  Natalia choked at this, as I hissed, ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up! What do they teach you at that school of yours?’

  ‘Gonorrhoea!’ shouted Jane. ‘That’s a disease you can get. And syphilis! I looked them up on the internet.’

  ‘What is gonorrhoea, Mummy?’ asked Persephone. ‘It’s a pretty word. Gonorrhoea. It sounds like a place in The Lord of the Rings.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ I moaned.

  ‘Darling,’ hissed Simon. ‘Can’t you control your children, darling?’

  ‘Evidently not, darling!’ I spat back. ‘Perhaps you could try controlling your children, instead of just ignoring them and leaving them to me!’

  Ah, there is nothing like a good passive–aggressive exchange of ‘darlings’ to make it obviously that a middle-class couple is not getting on!

  ‘Well!’ said Daddy brightly. ‘It’s lovely to see you all again. I see the children are as spirited as ever.’

  ‘Shall we order some wine?’ said Natalia faintly.

  ‘Excellent idea!’ I gasped, as Jane continued to describe the symptoms of a syphilitic cock, which she had apparently discovered courtesy of Dr Google.

  ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JESSICA!’ shouted Daddy over the babble of venereal diseases and broken dreams.

  I wondered if anyone would notice if I went to sleep under the table for a bit.

  Tuesday, 23 May

  How have a few punnets of strawberries and a pot of cream become so complex? My attempts to delegate the organisation to Katie and Kiki was not entirely successful, as Kiki’s idea of organising it was to bombard me with emails suggesting I got Cath Kidston or similar to sponsor it, and reminding me that when I got in touch with potential sponsors to tell them that although the school doesn’t have an Instagram page, they would be guaranteed great exposure on @kikiloveandlife and also to say that she was open to any collaborations or sponsorships they might be interested in. I told her to fuck off. Well, I didn’t actually, obviously. I said that if she wanted to pursue that, she could do it herself as I am very Busy and Important, and she took a huff about my refusal to consider her innovative ideas. Lydia snuck up behind me and peered over my shoulder when I was trying to answer one of these emails. (Kiki feels that as she doesn’t work conventional hours, then it is perfectly fine to expect me to deal with this while I’m at work, and if you don’t respond immediately she just keeps messaging until you do, and if you silence her on one channel of communication, she finds another. I assume this is why brands pay her to take photos with their stuff – it’s just to make her shut up and leave them alone.) Lydia didn’t say anything about why I was answering messages about Sports Days and PTAs, but I have a horrible feeling she suspects that something is going on.

  Katie’s attempts to organise the strawberries-and-cream stall for Sports Day had been somewhat more practical, but she had been met with a stunned wall of silence when she tried to drum up some volunteers to actually man it, and in despair she asked if I would send an email out to the parents instead, as asking nicely had got nowhere, and Katie has not spent enough years in the playground yet to have had all the milk of human kindness leached from her, and thus she was worried that sending a shirty email might be seen as rude. I, however, have no such qualms and thus I sent round a brusque message announcing that if there were no volunteers there would be no strawberries and cream, and thus there would be no money for the school and they could all fuck off and die for all I cared. Once again, obviously I deleted the last sentence before sending.

  The plus side was that my email did elicit some responses, such as one of the more, shall we say, eco mums (could use some deodorant, has shades of Louisa) questioning the ethics of a strawberries-and-cream stall, because had I taken into account food miles and packaging and the cruelty of the dairy industry and the low wages paid to the fruit pickers, and would there be a vegan alternative, and had I considered children with strawberry allergies, and why didn’t I arrange for someone to come in and do a workshop on sustainability with the children instead?

  Oh, yes, that’s a great idea. I mean, that doesn’t defeat the purpose of the PTA at all, does it? Spending money instead of raising it, just to satisfy some social justice warrior urges.

  Or sleazy Julian regretfully informing me that he couldn’t possibly help, as he was offering a photography package to parents to have their budding Usain Bolt’s moments of glory professionally captured, so the egg and spoon race would be immortalised forever, and actually, could I please forward this on to everyone on my PTA contact list and encourage them to sign up for it?

  Marvellous idea, Julian, yes, fantastic. Of course I have nothing better to do than help you market your questionable photography skills. Oh, wait a minute, actually, FUCK OFF! Or why not ask Kiki with two fucking Ks if she is interested in a #collaboration on #instagram since you are both so #selfob-fucking-ssessed?

  Or Amelia Whittaker saying that she couldn’t help because it was Rachel’s last year at primary school and so she needed to watch everything, but she hopes we find volunteers because she always really enjoys the strawberries and cream.

  Oh, that’s absolutely fine, Amelia! I mean, don’t worry that it’s also Jane’s last year, and that I might want to watch some of her Sports Day too – the only thing that matters is that YOU have a good day.

  And my personal favourite, Claudia Soames, who sent a shocked email complaining that she couldn’t believe she had even been asked to consider helping at a PTA eve
nt, as she had children and therefore couldn’t possibly be expected to spare the time to help.

  No shit, Sherlock. Just imagine asking people with children to help with the school fundraising! I mean, it’s almost like we’ve deliberately singled them out on purpose!

  There were many more emails from people offering a variety of spurious excuses about why they couldn’t help (but all expressing excitement at the prospect of someone else running the strawberries-and-cream stall for them to guzzle from while pretending that they were in a Merchant Ivory epic, instead of wandering round a rather municipal playing field), but not a single one from anybody willing to help.

  Such was my rage and general disillusionment with humanity that I sent emergency texts to Sam, Hannah and Katie convening a General Summit Against People on Friday night in the pub. We haven’t been out in ages, as Hannah is deep in wedding plans, Sam is busy swiping left or right on Tinder (not sure which is good and which is bad), and Katie’s children are small enough that maternal guilt does not allow her to escape that often and miss bedtime, though I have assured her that this does wear off eventually and you will grasp at any straw to avoid reading Green Eggs and Ham for the eleventy billionth time. Simon has sloped off for after-work drinks several times recently, leaving me to deal with the screaming matches over how wetting your toothbrush and quickly jabbing it into your mouth and out again does not constitute brushing one’s teeth, along with the constant getting-ups to complain of imaginary aches and pains until I crack and administer a placebo dose of Calpol, so it is definitely his turn to babysit. Or rather not ‘babysit’, actually – parent his children.

  Saturday, 27 May

  Ugh. ‘We’re going to be sensible and pace ourselves and just have a couple of drinks,’ we all insisted. ‘We’re going to drink a glass of water or maybe even a soft drink in between every alcoholic drink,’ we vowed. ‘We’re out for company and chat and a catch-up, NOT to get shitfaced,’ we claimed.