Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
‘ M um, why am I always the last to be picked up?’ Angus asked later when he and his muddy-footed friends clambered into my car after soccer practice.
‘Sorry, Gus,’ I said, distracted by the coach, Arnaud, stretching his muscular legs barely three metres away from me. He saw me looking and I waved.
I returned my attention to my son. ‘How was your day?’
No answer. Too busy making fart noises with friends in the rear of their personal taxi. How did I go from owning a cute Volkswagen Beetle to driving a people mover with a Kids on Board sticker plastered to the back window?
I turned the radio up and sang along to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, smiling to myself, even though December wasn’t yet upon us. Had Lexi been in the car, she’d be dry-retching about now. But then, if Lexi was in the car, I’d never get away with listening to this station or singing.
Parking in the driveway after dropping Angus’s friends home, I suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a long day. I craved soaking in a hot bath, then curling up with a good book, though that was as likely as snow falling in the Sahara .
In the kitchen, I heard Taylor Swift blaring about unrequited love.
‘Lexi, could you turn it down a few decibels, please?’ I called, before noticing a handsome boy stuffing his face with chocolate biscuits. Lexi’s new friend – boyfriend perhaps? What had happened to Luke from last week? A never-ending parade of adolescent boys seemed to pass through my kitchen, depleting our food supplies.
‘Wassup?’ he said.
Wassup ! Great, just what Lexi needed – an illiterate new boyfriend.
‘Hello.’ I carefully enunciated my vowels. ‘I am Kate, Lexi’s mother.’
‘Hunter,’ he obliged.
‘Hunter?’ I repeated, before staring at his T-shirt which said, Eat out more often . Clearly not an advertisement for a restaurant chain, given the ink graphics of two bodies, a man and woman on top of each other, head to crotch.
Six months ago, Lexi barely acknowledged boys. Five months ago, Lexi turned thirteen. Now here she was, hanging out with a walking advertisement for oral sex. The blue-black dye job suddenly seemed less important than it had yesterday.
In my short experience as the mother of a teenage girl, I’ve learned the following:
They’re so much more sophisticated than I was at that age.
iPhones are for texting best friends, Instagramming best friends or playing TikTok videos. Definitely not for answering their mother’s calls and texts.
They go from shunning boys to having boyfriends with names like Spike and Hunter.
They go from asking lots of questions and expecting you to know all the answers, to accusing you of knowing nothing.
They hate their mothers and torture them by mutilating their own hair.
They may or may not know the finer points of fellatio.
At thirteen, I wore braces, and had no breasts to speak of. I didn’t even own a bra. ‘What do you want a bra for?’ my mother had said. ‘To hold up your imagination?’
My male friends amounted to two younger cousins whom I studiously avoided at family functions. Of course, there were boys on the school bus, but they never took any notice of me, instead focusing entirely on my big-breasted classmates. On the rare occasion a person of the opposite sex paid me the slightest attention, I’d crumple in an embarrassed, boobless heap. And I certainly didn’t know what the hell fellatio was.
Lexi would have shunned me had she known me. Rather like she does now, I guess.
‘Hey, class mother, how’s the new job?’ my friend Diane asked when she phoned.
Diane (athletic, Zumba enthusiast, trivia queen) and I had met when Angus and her son, Tom, started preschool together. In the beginning, we only talked about kids, school and reality television. These days, few topics were taboo.
The downside of our friendship? Diane’s a fitness fanatic – an eight-glasses-of-water-a-day girl who lives by the creed of no-carbs-after-midday. And she drags me out of bed at dawn twice a week to go walking with her .
‘I’m looking forward to hearing all about it tonight at the end of year class dinner. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’
I shook my head. ‘Of course not.’ Of course, I had. It was still November. Too early for an end of year get-together.
‘I’ll pick you up in an hour.’
She clicked off and I mentally cursed myself for volunteering to be a class mum, a duty I’d neglected well before I had a job to blame. Apart from organising the weekly reading roster, I hadn’t done much at all. Oh, we’d had a half-hearted morning tea at the beginning of this term, a ‘how’s everything going’ affair. Eight mothers turned up at the park, several with fertile dogs and noisy toddlers in tow.
It ended up being a screaming, crying, barking fest lasting two interminable hours before we all politely retreated to our own lives, exhausted and having learned very little about each other or the other children in Year Three. Rupert had a ball though. Got to sniff a few new dogs’ bottoms, wee on some recently planted bottlebrushes and have me follow him around cleaning up after him.
At least toddlers and dogs weren’t invited tonight.
Diane and I sat at one end of a very long table at Bruce’s BBQ Bistro sipping Prosecco.
I picked up the bottle. ‘Since when did everyone start drinking this?’
Diane shrugged. ‘So, how did you feel after our little walk the other day?’
‘Exhausted. Tired. Crabby.’
‘Diddums! My heart bleeds. I work a full-time job, Kate, and I still make time to exercise. ’
‘Yes, yes, how’s David? Over his little op?’ Diane’s husband David had recently had a vasectomy.
‘I’m never going to hear the end of it. One tiny snip. That’s all it was. We agreed before we got married that we had enough children between us, and he was the one who suggested the operation. But now, the poor baby’s tender. And now he can’t take out the garbage, can’t drive the kids to school or help with the end of year activities. He doesn’t want to talk about Christmas, like, when will he see his children for Christmas? Christmas Day? Christmas Eve? Boxing Day? These things need to be worked out but he says it’s too stressful. He’s a wimp. That’s all there is to it.’ We clinked glasses.
‘How are all the kids?’ Diane has four – two of her own plus David’s two.
‘Feral. Fighting. Blended families, hey? Then there are the exes. This will be our second Christmas together.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I can’t face another disaster like last year, so we need to clarify exactly when the six of us can celebrate together.’
The disaster in question happened when David’s kids turned up unexpectedly on Christmas Eve when Diane was in the middle of glazing a ham. No presents wrapped and zero food prepared. Miscommunication meant that his children stayed Christmas Eve and were picked up the following morning.
‘I often have moments when I wonder whether David and I will go the distance. I felt so sure when I said I do again, but now I’m not so certain. Passion doesn’t endure. Aptitude in the kitchen, however?—’
‘Is a skill for life,’ I chimed in. ‘I’m sure he’s learnt from his mistake last year.’
‘You’d think, but so far, he’s studiously avoided the topic. But enough about me. Still admiring the soccer coach from afar?’
I laughed, thinking again about Arnaud’s thighs. He was fit, no doubt about it. Yes, Arnaud was my number one fantasy guy. It probably had a lot to do with the fact he’s French and ever since I was little, I’d dreamt of living in France… or at least visiting Paris. When I was sixteen, we even planned a European family holiday: me, Robyn, Mum and Dad. For months, I researched everything about Paris and immersed myself in French lessons. I couldn’t wait to stand under the Eiffel Tower and explore the city’s art galleries and museums. But it didn’t work out. Our family never made it to Paris. We never even made it as far as the airport.
Gradually, the table filled with latecomers and their excuses, greetings were exchanged, and we got down to the crux of the night – one-upmanship in the parenting stakes. Diane and I played a little game whenever someone spoke about parenting duties. We’d add a silent Because I’m a perfect mother to the end of their sentences. It amused us no end.
So, who was the best mother at the table?
Esther, (vibrant, flame-haired, and toothy grin to rival Julia Roberts) with two boys at school and another at preschool started. ‘I gave up my career to care for my boys full-time. And I love it. I love being there for them whenever they need me.’ Because I’m a perfect mother.
‘I know what you mean,’ Karin (perky breasts) agreed. ‘My whole life is spent ferrying the kids around making sure they’re looked after and pursuing their dreams. Karate on Monday, piano Tuesday?—’
‘Sounds exhausting,’ I said.
‘With my Ben,’ Mardi (conservative, opinionated) piped up, ‘I make sure he gets at least two hours of Mummy time every day.’ She held up two fingers and waved them in the air, like we were imbeciles. ‘Not the token ten minutes some mothers spend with their children.’ Because I’m a perfect mother.
Mardi has one child, plus a live-in maid, a full-time gardener and an accommodating husband who spends several months of the year overseas.
‘Our only real hiccup this term has been summer soccer,’ Mardi, the milestone monitor continued. ‘It’s criminal the way Ben’s being treated. Arnaud isn’t allowing him to shine the way he should. Ben’s a star. He’s also brilliant academically…’ Whether it was about soccer, reading groups, maths groups or class groups in general, Mardi had an opinion. A loud one. Once, when a few of us were discussing our children’s lack of reading progress, she proudly announced brilliant Benjamin had been reading National Geographic since he was four. Milestones indeed.
‘That, and he should have been given a solo at the upcoming Christmas concert. He has an amazing voice. God’s gift.’
Diatribe about the unfairness of Ben’s outstanding, but as yet uncelebrated academic career and vocal prowess exhausted, Mardi drew breath. For a moment. ‘I’m no Instagram fan, but I did notice Robyn’s hysterical post a few days back.’ Pause. ‘Given she’s not yet a parent…’
I knew what Mardi was referring to: Robyn’s seeming embrace of baby formulas if her baby failed to ‘latch’. (And it wasn’t hysterical, but hopefully Robyn wouldn’t endorse a brand any time soon. Or later.)
Mardi continued. ‘Surely even she knows breast is best.’
I put my hand up. ‘I’m not my sister’s keeper.’
Diane shifted in her seat. ‘Let’s talk about something interesting.’ She exhaled. ‘Kate’s doing some photography at Delicious Bites magazine.’
‘With Mara Milton?’ Esther piped up. ‘I absolutely loved her restaurant. Can’t believe she closed it to work for a magazine.’
‘No doubt the hours are a lot better,’ Diane quipped.
Karin clapped her hands. ‘Phwoar! Graeme Grafton’s something, isn’t he? No wonder Mara gave up Milton to work with him. Gorgeous. And his smile! Bachelor of the Year, wasn’t he? Have you met him, Kate?’
I nodded.
Karin was practically swooning. ‘Lucky you. Can you get me his autograph?’