Why Mummy Swears
Page 31
Jane made an unattractive noise in response to Sara.
‘Of course she will cry!’ snorted Peter. ‘Mummy cries at everything. She can’t even read or watch Charlotte’s Web because she gets into such a state. She is sooooo going to embarrass you today.’
‘Peter, enough!’ I snapped. ‘This is Jane’s big day. Please don’t wind her up.’
‘It’ll be your turn soon enough, Bumface! Then we’ll see how funny you think Mummy’s crying is.’ Jane spat at Peter, before beseeching Simon to make sure I behaved myself.
Sara had requested to come with us, and we all met Sam outside, who said, ‘Don’t worry, Ellen, I’ve got plenty of tissues for you,’ before we went in and took our seats, at the back, obviously, for we know our place, and Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Mummy and Fiona Montague had been camping outside the door since May to ensure they and their husbands got front-row seats. They were huffing and puffing with outrage that they had been told to put their giant cameras away, as the school would be issuing an official photograph of each child. Sleazy Julian was particularly incensed by this, spluttering that he was a professional photographer, and as such should be exempted from the ban, while the headmistress firmly told him to go and sit down. I have a horrible feeling Julian probably rather enjoyed the headmistress ticking him off.
The graduation was lovely. The children all looked so grown up going up to shake the headmistress’s hand and get another certificate. (So many certificates – I have literally dozens of certificates from the school, they are very keen on certificates, and I’m never sure which ones I’m supposed to keep and which can be binned, and I’ve always been afraid to ask anyone in case they judge me. I’m pretty sure we are meant to keep this one, though.)
Although the rational part of my mind knew it had been seven extremely long years of arguments about the right way to do long division, of inane reading books and competitive ‘projects’ involving building Viking longships and Roman forts, I found myself quite overcome with emotion as I sobbed hopelessly into a very inadequate tissue, while Sam pressed a large, clean ManSize tissue on me, because it really didn’t seem like any time at all since all those big girls and boys up there on the stage had been tiny little tots in too-big blazers on their first day of school, looking far too small and vulnerable to possibly be old enough to go to Big School.
And now, just as I’m finally getting to grips with primary school, Jane is done with it, finished, and off to Proper Big School in a few weeks, where they will probably look tiny and small and vulnerable in their too-big blazers all over again, as they face all the challenges of secondary school. How will Jane cope? How will I cope?
I wish someone had told me when my children were babies that none of those things I spent so much time worrying about – the right purees, the right educational toys, the right sleeping bag and night light and blankets, too much tummy time, not enough tummy time, overstimulation, understimulation – that none of that really matters. All you can do is your best, and love them and hope they turn out all right. I may have sobbed this snottily into Simon’s shoulder as he hissed at me to get a grip on myself, and Jane glared in horror from the stage. I also wished I’d had the foresight to wear waterproof mascara, like Fiona Montague and Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Mummy had.
Jane was unimpressed with me afterwards. ‘I told you not to cry!’ she said indignantly.
‘But darling, all the mummies cried!’ I protested. ‘And Sara cried too!’ (though Sara’s crying was considerably prettier and less snotty than mine – she just sniffed something about ‘Bella bambina’ while I howled).
‘If all the mummies jumped off a cliff, would you jump off too?’ said Jane loftily, and annoyingly, for that is my usual argument to all her insistences that EVERYONE else is doing/getting/allowed something. ‘Exactly. And your mascara has run! Honestly, Mummy, if you didn’t cry when I started school, why are you crying now?’
‘I don’t know. It’s the end of an era, I suppose. The start of a new chapter.’
‘OMG, you are sooooooo embarrassing. Can we get fish and chips for tea?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can I get an Instagram account to celebrate me being grown-up and my new chapter?’
‘No.’
‘You’re so unfair!’
‘I know.’
‘I hate you!’
‘I know.’
‘You’re ruining my life!’
‘I’m your mother, that’s my job.’
‘Can we get ice cream too?’
‘Oh, all right.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As ever, this book has been a team effort, and there are an enormous number of people who need thanks. Just a few of them are everyone at HarperCollins, but especially Katya Shipster, Polly Osborn, Jasmine Gordon, Jenny Hutton, Tom Dunstan, Anna Derkacz, Alice Gomer and the whole sales team. My long suffering agent, Paul Baker at Headway Talent also deserves huge thanks, mainly for putting up with me. A special thanks to Kearan Ramful and the team too. Carly P, thank you for the guidance on all things vet-related, and for answering my many random questions – any inaccuracies about veterinary procedures are entirely due to me, and not to Carly’s sterling advice. And Grace Cheetham always and forever has my eternal thanks for taking that first punt on me.
Alison, Eileen, Linda, Lynn, Mairi and Tanya – for all the gin, Rioja, FIAFs and sanity you provided through the writing of this book – thank you! And thank you to the Dahlings, past and present also, for your unwavering support and belief in me. And thanks too, to all the Saddell Survivors, but especially Gav, for the elephants at Culloden – a moment too hilarious and surreal to incorporate into a book, however much I try.
Ellie, Aaron, Callum and Alice – thank you for the Café Patron, for reminding me that Café Patron is a bad idea, for the playing of the Killers on repeat, for the lifts home, and for all the laughs.
Finally, my family. My husband was nicknamed ‘The Dream Crusher’ many years ago, due to his unreasonable refusal to allow me to stake everything we owned on a particularly ramshackle (but picturesque) hovel, but in the one dream that really counted, he backed me to the hilt. Thank you, Dream Crusher. And my moppets – I fear you are slightly neglected when I’m trying to finish a book, so thank you for understanding and FYI I don’t love Judgy Dog more than you, I just love him differently. Last, but most certainly not least, enormous thanks are due to my parents-in-law, who fed and watered my children while I wrote, sobbed and gnawed my fingers to the bone and I am forever grateful for everything you do for us.
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