Confessions of a Bad Mother

by Stephanie Calman

  Then, when we are about to become homeless, a house pops up in the same road as our friend with the pergola. It’s long and thin, like our first house turned on its side. When we go to look round, there is a teenager on the sofa reading the Financial Times.

  ‘I’ve seen show flats where they put a plastic croissant on the table, but nothing like this.’

  The children love it.

  ‘There’s even a shed, so they can have a den.’

  ‘Somewhere to smoke!’

  And so we leave the bars and shops of Islington, north London, for the tree-lined avenues of Dulwich in the south. I have been assuming that Lawrence and Lydia will be traumatized by losing Maureen. She’s a nurturing and observant carer of children, but by the time we’ve booked the moving lorry, I’ve turned her into a cross between Mary Poppins and Melanie Klein. In fact they turn out to be quite unbothered, whereas I have been crying on and off since we exchanged contracts eight weeks ago. The thought of managing without her quiet, clean house to leave them in, the idea of losing the routine – this crutch – fills me with panic. I am going to be alone with them both for the first time, nowhere near my friends, and am trembling with chronic, low-level dread.

  On moving day, we take Lawrence to Maureen’s as usual, so we can finish packing. At 1 p.m., with the lorry on its way, we go to fetch him. In accordance with Maureen’s routine, they have already begun their daily visit to the One O’Clock Club. This is Lynn’s domain. She manages it, and apart from a press release I did for the local papers when it was threatened with closure, we have had no contact.

  When we arrive and see the breadth of activities laid on, I feel a surge of guilt. Two other people have been educating my child – stimulating him, widening his skill base and doing all the stuff I should be doing. His passably good manners are surely down to Maureen. She doesn’t swear, which gives her a head start over me. And she handles all those tricky management issues, like toy sharing. But I’ve assumed that the stunning splashes of colour Lawrence brings home are due to my fabulously artistic DNA.

  Wrong! All the kids here are geniuses. The walls are bedecked with a dazzling display of infant talent. The Wendy house is stocked with dressing-up clothes, there are pots of paint, glitter, things to stick, plus books, and even a little reading corner with a sofa. We’d been worrying about the standard of Islington’s schools: no need! He could have spent the next eight years here.

  We say hello – and goodbye – to the Incredible Lynn. Maureen hugs Lawrence and tells us: ‘The plaster on his forehead is because he had a little fall on the sofa.’ She gestures at the reading area. The sofa is made of wood. ‘He’s got a little cut, but he’s fine. Aren’t you, Lawrence?’ And indeed, he is not bothered at all.

  ‘Goodbye, good luck!’

  ‘Goodbye. Thanks for everything!’

  ‘Bye!’

  ‘Wave bye-bye, Lawrence!’

  ‘Bye-bye …’

  We load him into the car, repack Lydia, and head south.

  At the other end, Peter wants to put away his precious 1960s pedal car, so he carries it through the house to the garden, to take to the shed. But as he holds it over the back doorstep, he gives a cry and drops to the floor.

  ‘What?! What is it?!’

  ‘My back!’

  He can’t move. I feed some aspirin into his mouth and pour water over his face to swallow them with.

  ‘Ow!’ (Splash.) ‘Ow!’

  I can do nothing but leave him lying there, with the removal men stepping over him. Once the table’s unloaded, I attach Lawrence and Lydia to it in their escape-proof screw-on chairs. Lawrence’s cut, much nearer his eye than I’d realized, is looking slightly inflamed. Should I be worried? The men finish and go away, leaving us with our boxes and Peter, like a draught excluder, along the back door. I leave the children at the table, so they can occupy themselves gouging out the varnish with their spoons while I get on the phone to try and find someone to look at Peter’s back.

  We ring the vendor, who is an anaesthetist. Apparently one of our new neighbours is a physio, two doors along. What a useful street we’ve moved into! She comes round and bends over the prostrate husband. She is cheery in blue eye-shadow.

  ‘Ooh, dear! What have you done there?’

  ‘Nnnhhh.’

  ‘Stay still, keep taking the anti-inflammatries, and try not to sit.’

  ‘Not much danger of that.’

  It’s one way to meet the neighbours. When she’s gone he turns sideways and says: ‘Can you bring me a saucepan?’

  ‘Er, why?’

  ‘I need something to pee into.’

  The next day, one side of Lawrence’s forehead is still red, and looking distinctly bigger than the other. We get a call from Katarina, who’s been looking after Mira’s children, and might be available two days a week. She’s been to see us a couple of times at the old house, and clearly adores kids. I have no idea how to interview people – ‘Er, are you nice or horrible?’ – so am hoping my first impression, that she’s a natural, will be right. Meanwhile, there’s a surgery within walking distance, so I get out the double buggy and wheel the kids round. The receptionist is friendly and concerned. She can’t have been to medical receptionist training school.

  ‘It’s infected,’ says the doctor. ‘I’m going to prescribe antibiotics, I’m afraid.’

  Afraid? Ah, yes: she’s anticipating automatic middle-class resistance.

  ‘No, no: please. Stuff them in.’

  Great service! We haven’t even registered yet.

  Back home, Peter is only just beginning to crawl. I suddenly feel less guilty about getting some help, so ring back Katarina.

  ‘I can come on Friday,’ she says. ‘But only for the morning. I have another job in the afternoon.’

  ‘Whatever! Anything would be great.’

  Two days later, the side of Lawrence’s head is even redder, and bigger. The doctor gazes at him steadily.

  ‘Ah, yes …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The oral antibiotics don’t seem to have worked.’

  ‘And therefore …?’

  Her hand is on the phone.

  ‘Paediatric Admissions, please. No, I’ll hold.’ She suddenly hands me the phone. ‘I’ll be back in a sec. If anyone answers, you’re holding for Dr Waitt.’

  ‘Er, OK …’

  She returns with a piece of paper.

  ‘This is what he’s been taking. Just show them this when you get there. D’you know where King’s is? A&E Department. Just walk round. They’re expecting you.’

  ‘Er, OK. What he has got?’

  ‘Cellulitis.’

  ‘What’s the worst-case scenario? I promise not to panic.’

  ‘When it’s in the head like this … Meningitis.’

  ‘Lawrence, back in the buggy. Now!’

  On the way up the hill, I review the events that have brought us to this. Let’s see … I had children – probably a mistake, as I didn’t want to look after them full-time like Proper Mothers. So I took Lawrence to Maureen’s. And that was mainly so I could have some time to myself, and do some work – according to research always being quoted in the newspapers, a Bad Thing. Then, while in the care of Maureen – with whom I had a financial arrangement, so it’s not like she was my mother or something which would have been morally justifiable – he fell over and got a bad cut. Now the cut is infected, his head is blowing up like a tomato, and he might die. So clearly, this is all my fault.

  The A&E Department is populated by those old, drunk men who seem to do nothing but fall over and go to A&E Departments. The admissions staff, I am amazed to discover, are more interested in finding Lawrence a bed than criticizing me. He has to have a line into his hand and be given intravenous antibiotics every four hours. My little boy! OK, think. I queue for the payphone, with Lawrence all needled up like a dwarf junkie and Lydia squirming in the buggy. She’s still here with us; Peter can
barely lift a newspaper, let alone her. How am I going to do this?

  ‘We’re at King’s.’

  ‘Oh, my God …’

  ‘He’s going to be all right, but—’

  ‘I want to go to the playroom.’

  ‘In a minute. He’s got to have intravenous antibiotics every four hours and stay at least two nights.’

  ‘I want to go to the playroom.’

  ‘Can you ring Katarina? And maybe get her to meet me here?’

  ‘Mum-meee!!!’

  ‘OK. I’ll try and—’

  ‘Playroom! PLAYROOM!!!!!’

  ‘In a MINUTE! I’m not raising my voice at you. And can you ring Claire?’

  I have no idea if Katarina can rise to the challenge, but Claire will make everything all right. She has no children, is younger than me and lives in Kent. But in a crisis, she’s the one. She came to Australia after our car accident and brought me frozen yogurt.

  We go to the playroom. Lawrence gets hold of a toy train and despite the needle in his hand, plays delightedly. I let Lydia out of the buggy, and wait. I don’t have nappies, extra milk or a toothbrush. And I forgot to ask Peter about his back. I’m a bad mother and wife. At least Claire can’t disown me; we’re related. Maybe in this situation I can redeem myself, be marvellous. Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll sleep on the floor – judging by the look of that ward I’m going to have to – and not have a shower or anything, and perhaps that will make up for it. Lawrence isn’t going to die, anyhow. He is going to be fine.

  The children are running towards the door. Well, Lawrence is. Lydia is shuffling.

  ‘Katarina! Katarina!’

  She picks them up and hugs them. And she has a carrier bag in one hand.

  ‘Hello! I thought you might need some nappies.’

  ‘!’

  She takes Lydia home in the buggy, and Claire arrives. She’s brought a book for Lawrence, and a toothbrush, flannel and soap for me. Plus deodorant.

  ‘In a crisis, it always helps to smell nice.’

  ‘Oh, Claire …’

  ‘Hey, it’s all right.’

  ‘He’s been at Maureen’s for ages, and it’s all been fine!’

  ‘Of course it has.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to fall and cut himself.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’

  I slump tearfully into a chair. Lawrence is having a great time. Because he won’t leave the toy train, the nurse agrees to give him his meds in the playroom. I sit him on my lap, and she unwraps the end bit of the tape holding the line in place. Suddenly he cries. The nurse is completely unmoved. Claire lifts up the end of the line, which is hanging out over Lawrence’s hand, and therefore pulling on the needle.

  She says: ‘Isn’t he crying because this bit should be held up?’

  ‘Oh. Yes … Sorry, I’m not very good with needles.’

  I’m having a bad feeling about this. This is not like any hospital I’ve ever been in. It’s more like a blackmarket version of one. Any minute now, we’ll see Harry Lime with the drugs trolley. Claire continues to hold the line up until it’s done, talking to Lawrence soothingly the while. I tell him how fantastic he’s being, which he is.

  ‘Can I play now, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  Four hours later, it’s time for the next dose, but there’s no sign of the nurse – or anyone. Eventually we find one. She prepares the medicine and gazes vaguely at her watch.

  ‘What time did he have the last lot?’

  ‘Well, about ten past two,’ I say.

  Claire says: ‘Shouldn’t she know that? Isn’t there a chart where they’re supposed to write it down?’

  Eventually, we have to put him to bed. But the ward is heaving with children and parents, and the television is blaring. And hang on – is that another television beside the bed opposite? There’s a teenage boy lying there, not looking ill at all, and he’s not even watching it. Two or three grown-ups are watching the main TV. It doesn’t look as though we can get it switched off, as it’s only eight o’clock, even if it is a children’s ward. So I start drawing the curtain round Lawrence’s bed to at least block out some of the light, that special, ultra-bright dazzling light that hospitals like to keep on so they can see you while you don’t sleep. A voice calls from the desk.

  ‘Can you put it back, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re not allowed to draw the curtains.’

  ‘We’re just trying to help my child get some sleep. Why not?’

  ‘We have to be able to see the girl in the bed behind him, and she keeps fitting.’

  In the narrow space between beds, as if in a Jacques Tati film, Claire attempts to unfold the chair-bed they provide for parents. She takes that, while I lie down next to Lawrence.

  At 11 p.m., both tellies are still going, loudly, and the teenage boy is playing cards with a girl. I’ve been to nightclubs quieter than this.

  ‘Can you please switch off the TVs?’

  ‘All right.’

  But they don’t. Eventually, we get a few fragments of sleep before Lawrence has to be woken anyway for the next dose. None of the nurses are like nurses, or not like any nurses I’ve ever met. They’re more like schoolkids doing their least favourite lesson. And there is no sign whatsoever of a doctor. Later, I go past the desk to see a nurse sitting beside a large tin of biscuits.

  ‘Could I possibly have one?’

  She gestures sullenly at the tin. She has her feet on the desk.

  ‘Claire …’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘Yes, I always sleep with a poker game and two tellies on.’

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Anytime. I like an outing.’

  In the morning, Lawrence bounces cheerfully off to the playroom while Claire staggers off to find the coffee machine.

  ‘I can’t do another night of that,’ I say.

  ‘Does he have to actually stay in?’

  A doctor appears – like normal hospitals, they do actually have ward rounds – and I turn into Hattie Jacques.

  ‘We’ve had a dreadful night,’ I tell him, ‘with two televisions on, which they refused to turn off, and that boy over there playing cards till God knows when. And they wouldn’t even let us draw the curtains! How can you expect patients to get better like this?’

  ‘Well …’ I wait for the apology, or the explanation, or something. None is forthcoming. He doesn’t care.

  ‘Right!’ Something unusual is happening. I hear a voice saying, ‘I’m taking him home. He doesn’t have to actually stay here, right?’ The voice is mine.

  ‘He has to have the antibiotics every four hours.’

  ‘So I’ll set the alarm and bring him back. OK?’

  The guy is clearly relieved to get rid of us.

  Claire is impressed.

  ‘Ooh, well done!’

  I feel weird and very slightly high, as if I’ve just been to a foreign country and been magically able to speak the language.

  Claire and I take Lawrence back at four, eight and midnight and, as he can now move about, Peter and I do 4 a.m. His head has gone down, and is almost back to normal. He’s sorry to leave because he misses the playroom. The needle is finally gone, but he keeps the little plastic bracelet. I don’t believe in telling children to be brave, but then with him I haven’t needed to. What other amazing qualities will he reveal to us in the coming years? I speculate about this, proudly, as I fall asleep in my own bed.

  13 Oi-U and Non Oi-U

  Alone with them all day, I am shattered. Katarina now comes for half a day on a Tuesday and a Friday, but on the other days, by 3 p.m. I’m often crashing out for seconds at a time, with the two of them crawling over me. Trying to get them to have their nap at the same time is like trying to do those impossible games with the little silver balls; as one goes in, the other rolls out. A
nd now, at two and a half, Lawrence is giving his up. I complain to Peter: ‘Having them so close together was your idea.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Really? You want to come home and do this?’

  I start looking forward to Katarina’s two half-days like a POW awaiting the Red Cross. In between we watch a lot of videos, whose volume I keep turning down to the level where I can tune out and grab a few minutes’ sleep. And I quickly start ‘losing’ the most irritating ones, e.g. Bob the Builder and the not surprisingly less famous Titch – dramatic theme: he is smaller than his siblings. Subversive subtext: none. Some armies play music to get them in the killing mood; well, Titch does it for me. I prefer Thomas the Tank Engine (& Friends), with its explosions, crashes and trains falling off bridges. Pingu’s morose Scandinavian humour appeals, too, along with the behaviour of his parents: irritable dad and anxious mum, who in one episode go away for the weekend, leaving Pingu and the baby alone in the house with nothing to eat but popcorn. We’ve got the bumper edition which has about 500 episodes on it. But for post-modern subtext we like Fireman Sam, a Welsh bachelor unable to form bonds with adults who lives in a village where two sex-starved, post-menopausal women compete for the attentions of a dyspraxic bus driver. There’s very little action; Excitable Italian Bella Lasagne has to set fire to her cafe every week so they can get out the fire engine.

  Apart from that we have one other activity, which is playing with the toy garage. We push the cars down the slope, and sometimes, for variety, jam them in the lift. Then I unjam them, while working out exactly how long it is until they can both start some kind of full-time education. Two years. I’m not sure I can make it that far.

  I take a deep breath and tackle nurseries. After a mixture of phoning and SAS-style swoops, I finally discover three in the immediate area that take children in nappies. All the others require them to be dry by two and a half, which is a clever trick, says my mother, since their bottoms and other bits only start getting under their control at about that age. The posh mummies’ venue of choice is a well-appointed house with garden, and positively swarming with nursery assistants. Round here it’s clearly regarded as the Savoy of nurseries. It even takes babies. But the rows of sleeping mats, and the girls in plastic gloves changing nappies, puts me in mind of orphanages I’ve seen on the news, and despite the lovely building and great word of mouth, I can’t face it.