Days Like These

by Sue Margolis

  All except one of the babies is napping. A chubby chap named Freddie is sitting on his mother’s lap, chewing on his Celeste the Penguin teething toy. I seem to remember Abby making do with a plastic teething ring. Now babies—the middle-class ones at least—have Celeste, who comes impregnated with vanilla and is made from the sap of the hevea tree.

  Freddie’s mother is a ruddy-cheeked woman with a head of prematurely gray hair. I recognize her at once. Tanya pointed her out to me at that first meeting at Claudia’s house to discuss the school fair. Her name is Hester. She’s the one who gives her children breast milk ear drops and her husband, Reiki, hand jobs.

  Pinned to Hester’s fleece is a Friends of the Earth badge. She’s clearly a member of Faraday House’s “other half.” I wonder how at home she feels among the Marc Jacobs totes and expensive highlights.

  Freddie has a moon face and eyes the color of bitter chocolate. He’s gorgeous—what my mother would call “a nosh.” Pretty soon I’m out of my seat, blowing raspberries on the back of his hand. Each time I make the noise, he laughs. “You’re more than welcome to hold him,” Hester says. “He’s very good with strangers.”

  “Really? I’d love to.” I lift him from his mother’s lap. “Come on, little man. Oh, aren’t you a cutie?” Freddie is all smiles and gurgles. “Who’s a booful boy, then? Who is? You is. Yes, you is.”

  It takes a moment before I become aware of a distinct lack of padding between Freddie’s bottom and me. She can’t have. Surely not. “Goodness,” I say to Hester, “I think you’ve forgotten to put a diaper on him.”

  “I didn’t forget,” she says, looking rather pleased with herself. “He only wears one at night. During the day, he’s dry. He’s completely potty-trained. You won’t believe the amount we save on diapers. And of course it’s environmentally sound because we’re doing our bit to reduce all the methane produced by landfill sites.”

  “But he’s six months old.”

  “Five actually.”

  “And he’s potty-trained at five months? That’s a thing?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see looks being exchanged among the other mothers. Ginny mutters: “What balderdash. Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “It’s not remotely balderdash,” Hester says. “Several books have been written on early potty-training. You learn to look for that screwed-up, urgent expression on their face and then you know it’s time to produce the potty.” She takes a travel potty with a disposable—no doubt biodegradable—liner from her burlap bag.

  “I had no idea,” I say.

  “He’ll be fine. I promise.”

  I’m not sure what to do. The woolen skirt I’m wearing is almost new and dry-clean only. “I’m sure he will. And it’s not that I don’t trust him. But just for now, I think I’d rather give him back. Maybe another time.” I can’t get rid of Freddie fast enough.

  “Suit yourself,” Hester says, going all snarky on me. I ignore her and return to my seat.

  The meeting lasts less than half an hour—partly because most people want to get to Claudia’s talk—but mainly because Ginny, ever the Girl Guide, is so organized. She has made a list of all the usual stalls—face painting, ring toss, guess the weight of the cake and so on—as well as the jobs that need to be done. People are quick to volunteer and suggest ideas for new attractions, such as throwing wet sponges at teachers and a stick-on-tattoo parlor. Somebody says she can get a deal on a merry-go-round. We vote on each of these. Everything is carried unanimously. “Text me if you have any problems,” Ginny says. “I will send out e-mails and leaflets nearer the time reminding people to get baking for the cake stall. Oh, and we’ll need some volunteers to man the barbecue. Mrs. S.J. has given me a float from school funds, so I’ll order the burgers and buns. Right, I think that just about wraps it up… .”

  Talk of the devil. In swans Mrs. S.J.: flawless blow-dry, lipstick freshly applied. “Sorry to interrupt, ladies. I know you’re doing terribly important work, but I just want to remind you that Dr. Connell’s talk is about to start in the hall.”

  Chairs are scraped back. I find myself watching Hester as she stands up, Freddie still cradled in her arms. What she can’t see and I can is the wet patch on his dungarees, which is growing by the second. Since fresh pee is warm, it takes her a while to react. Then the woman who has been sitting next to her notices.

  “I think you’ll find that Freddie has just wet himself and you,” she says, barely able to suppress her joy. Freddie’s mother removes her hand from underneath her son and looks at her wet sleeve. Then she sniffs Freddie’s bum, as if there is a possibility her son is excreting organic elderflower cordial instead of pee. Her shock turns to indignation. “Well, it’s never happened before,” she says. “I think he must be coming down with something.”

  I’m about to dash into the school kitchen to grab some paper towels when a second woman, whose baby daughter is wearing a necklace made of amber beads, steps in with a wad of baby wipes.

  I nudge Tanya. “Doesn’t that child’s mother realize she could chew on those beads and choke?”

  “You’d think. But the babies all wear them. The amber is supposed to contain properties that relieve teething pain.”

  The nurse bit of me kicks in. “And presumably they’ve checked the scientific evidence—the peer-reviewed studies.”

  “What? You have to be joking. They don’t care about science. It’s word of mouth that matters. I’m telling you, some of these women are crackers.”

  By now Ginny is staring at the little girl as well. “But eventually a child is going to die.”

  “Not possible,” Tanya says. “The beads possess magic powers that send out a force field to stop babies chewing them.”

  “God, life can be depressing,” Ginny mutters, putting her legal pad in her bag. “Come on, let’s get out of here and adjourn to the coffee shop. I could murder a doughnut.”

  With so many people heading toward the school hall, traffic is moving slowly in the corridor. I suggest that to save time we leave through the emergency exit next to us. I’m lifting the bar when Mrs. S.J. appears.

  “Goodness, ladies, surely you’re not leaving?”

  “We don’t want to,” Ginny says, “but there’s still so much to discuss for the school fair. It will be upon us before you know it.”

  “Oh, but surely you can take an hour or so off? Dr. Connell is such an excellent speaker. What’s more, there’s tea and cake in the hall. Do come. I promise I won’t tell on you to the other volunteers.” Mrs. S.J. offers us a conspiratorial wink.

  We’ve been railroaded.

  Just inside the door, a table is piled high with Claudia’s book. The cover is full of smiley, bouncing and skipping ethnically diverse children. It’s called How to Parent.

  “A suitably modest title,” Ginny remarks.

  There is a notice saying that Dr. Connell is charging a pound above the cover price and donating it to the school fund. None of us—Tanya in particular—feels inclined to put our hand in our pocket. Instead we help ourselves to cups of tea. Ginny takes a slice of sponge in lieu of a doughnut and I find the last three seats next to one another. They’re in the second row, which is good, but they’re also in the middle, which means we can’t slip out after five minutes.

  Mrs. S.J. and Claudia are already seated on the stage. Claudia is wearing a navy pencil skirt and a matching tailored jacket. Her hair has been gathered into a French pleat. Her long legs are tucked neatly to one side, the way the Queen does it.

  Once everybody is seated, Mrs. S.J. stands to make her introduction. “Ladies … and I think I spy one or two gentlemen …” Cue polite laughter. “As some of you will know, Dr. Connell has written six hugely successful books on child care. How to Parent is her seventh and I have no doubt that it is racing up the bestseller charts as I speak. I think you will agree that we are extremely fortunate to have such a distinguished expert in our midst. So without further ado I would like to hand you over to Dr. Connell
.”

  As the audience applauds, Claudia gets up from her seat. Once she’s arranged her iPad, she grips the sides of the lectern with both hands. As she waits for silence, her eyes scan the room. Her nude lips are fixed in a smile. There are no nerves—at least none that I can detect. She has the poise of a seasoned public speaker. After turning to Mrs. S.J. and thanking her for her kind words, she takes a moment before she begins: “I have five golden rules of parenting. They are as follows: Shape, don’t control. Listen, don’t preach. Celebrate the positive. Don’t be frightened to say no. And finally remember to look after yourself. Wine o’clock is a lifesaver and should never to be underestimated.”

  This sets off a ripple of applause and a few hear, hears. At the same time, Tanya is stabbing the keyboard on her phone composing an Amazon review of Claudia’s book. I’m assuming it’s going to be less than complimentary.

  “But you haven’t even read it,” I hiss.

  “And your point is?” She carries on typing.

  Meanwhile Claudia is talking about the best way to punish naughty children. “Try not to overreact,” she soothes. “Make sure the punishment fits the crime. If you always resort to heavy punishments, you will end up with nothing left in your armory. If you take your children’s iPads away just because they have talked back to you, what are you going to do when they punch their siblings? Also … whichever punishment you choose, the most important thing is to carry it through. Constant threats don’t work. Children end up laughing at you and thinking they can get away with murder.”

  “It pains me to say it,” Ginny says to me, “but the woman is talking sense.”

  “I know. It’s infuriating.”

  Tanya isn’t listening to us or to Claudia. Her Amazon review posted, she’s checking her Facebook page.

  Claudia spends the next forty-five minutes giving advice about dealing with everything from bed-wetting to picky eaters to bullying. She has a great deal to say about the latter: “Even when schools have excellent antibullying initiatives in place”—she offers Mrs. S.J. a nod of recognition—“it’s hard to banish bullying completely. That’s where parents come in. Children who are being bullied must never be left to suffer in silence. They must feel able to confide in their parents. The key word here is ‘intimacy.’ Loving children isn’t enough to protect them. Your relationship with your kids needs to be intimate as well as affectionate. They must be encouraged to share their deepest thoughts and fears with you. That way, if your children are being bullied, they are more likely to confide in you and trust you to deal with the situation appropriately.”

  When she’s done, the applause is enthusiastic and lengthy. Ginny and I even find ourselves joining in. Tanya glares at us, arms folded.

  Mrs. S.J. announces that Dr. Connell will now be taking questions. One of the dads kicks off. He’s worried that as a single parent he’s overprotective and interferes too much in his children’s lives.

  “That’s Jim Ferguson,” Tanya whispers. “He’s known as Tragic Jim. Terrible thing. Wife died in a car crash a couple of years back. Left him to raise twin girls.”

  Tragic Jim says that on the one hand he wants his daughters to bring their problems to him. On the other he’s worried that he’s denying them space.

  “It’s about finding the right balance,” Claudia says. “It isn’t easy. As parents, we must respect our children’s privacy, but at the same time, we need to be on their case. It’s also vital that they know we’re emotionally available and that it’s safe to bring problems to us. On the whole my two do discuss problems with me.”

  “Course they do,” Tanya snorts, eyes rolling.

  A second woman wonders how she can best deal with her children whose behavior has deteriorated since their father took a four-month engineering contract in Brazil. “He’ll be back in three months, but things are so bad, it might as well be three years.”

  “You have my sympathy,” Claudia says with a tender smile. “This is separation anxiety, pure and simple.”

  She emphasizes the importance of phone and Skype contact along with messages of love from Dad in the form of old-fashioned letters and cards. “It’s important that he keeps telling the kids he misses them and loves them and can’t wait to come home. I also suggest you start planning a family vacation for when Dad gets back. This will give the children something to focus on and look forward to.”

  “That’s a great idea. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, hands keep going up. It seems like half the audience has questions. Claudia manages to answer four or five before Mrs. S.J. gently interrupts to say that the bell is about to go for end of school. She thanks Claudia for her insight and inspiration, wishes her well with the new book and asks everybody to give her a big hand—which they are more than delighted to do.

  Mrs. S.J. makes a quick exit. I’m guessing she has no desire to stick around to be accosted by mothers demanding to know why Milo or India hasn’t been put in a higher maths set.

  Some people head outside to wait for their children to come out of class. Others make their way to the book table. Meanwhile a large crowd has gathered around Claudia—presumably to pay homage to ask for her advice.

  “You’re staring at her,” Ginny says to me.

  “I know. I’m just wondering what it must feel like to have adoring fans.”

  “Wonderful for the old ego, I guess. But I would never want to be a fan—at least not one who chases after luminaries to touch the hem of their garment. It’s so demeaning. Turns you into just another member of the public.”

  “But isn’t that what we are—members of the public?”

  “You might be. I’m not.”

  Tanya is listening and smiling. “You know, Ginny, in your own way you’re such a snob.”

  “Me? A snob? Get out. You’re talking to somebody who lives in public housing. All I’m saying is that people shouldn’t assume that there is a natural order of things—that they are destined to spend their lives in awe of the great and the good rather than nurturing their own talents. Too many lives are wasted that way.” She pauses. “I’m always trying to drum this into my daughter’s children.”

  Just then I notice Claudia waving at me and beckoning me over. “I wonder what she wants,” Tanya says. “Whatever it is, watch your step.”

  Claudia is chatting to the woman whose husband is in Brazil. As I approach they break off. “Judy, I want you to meet Alice. I thought that since Sam and Rosie have been having separation anxiety problems, it might help if you two got together.”

  I am aware that there is a gaggle of women around us, taking this in.

  “Actually Sam and Rosie are fine. So far, they’re doing really well.” I turn to Alice. “I’m sorry you’re having such a rough time with your kids and of course I’d be more than happy to have a chat over a cup of coffee, but for some reason—probably nothing more than luck—my two are OK.”

  “Oh, come on, Judy,” Claudia says, “that’s rather disingenuous of you.”

  “I don’t think it is.”

  “But surely Sam and Rosie’s problems are public knowledge? Kids have problems. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I agree, but my grandchildren are not having problems.”

  “But everybody knows Sam brought a gun to school. And not just any old gun. I think I’m right in saying it was an army assault rifle.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. It was a toy. He did it for a joke.”

  “And what about Rosie? Is it a joke when she calls one of her classmates a motherfucker?”

  I carry on looking at Claudia. That way I can’t see the collective eyebrow-raising that I assume is going on.

  “And what about her painting inappropriate sexual images?” There are several gasps.

  “Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Hero told me she paints pictures of naked people.”

  “Oh my God. You really are scraping the barrel now. Rosie saw me get
ting out of the bath the other day. The painting is completely innocent. Even Miss Carter said so.”

  “With all due respect to Miss Carter, she doesn’t have my expertise in child psychology.”

  I can feel my hand making a fist. “This would be funny if it weren’t so malicious. What are you suggesting? That I am behaving inappropriately around my grandchildren?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Come on. Answer me. Are you or are you not accusing me of inappropriate behavior? It’s a simple question. I’m sure everybody is gagging to know.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good.”

  “I do think they have some issues, though.”

  “What issues? There are no issues. You’ve blown everything out of proportion. What’s more, you’ve done it in public, for the benefit of the entire school—in order to hurt and humiliate me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want to humiliate you?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Look … the point I’m trying to make is that Sam and Rosie are acting out because they feel abandoned and bereft—bereaved even.”

  “Just like mine,” Alice pipes up, looking at me. “I do think Claudia’s right. You’re being too hard on her.”

  I am anxious not to take out my fury on Alice, who seems like a decent soul, if a bit meek and ineffectual. I say again that I’m sorry she’s having a bad time. “But I really don’t think I’m the best person to help you.”

  Fighting to stay calm, I turn back to Claudia. “Since you have so generously diagnosed my problem, let me return the favor. You are an addict. You have an obsessive need to rescue people you consider to be lame ducks so that you can build them up again, restore them to health. Then you sit back and bask in the glory.”

  Claudia frowns. Her head and neck jerk back. For a second she looks like a chicken dodging a bullet. “That’s nonsense. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”