into tears and sobbed, ‘Don’t you EVER, EVER do that again. I was so worried!’
‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ said Peter. ‘I thought it would be OK because I wasn’t going very far. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘I was only scared because I love you,’ I wept.
‘I love you too, Mummy. I won’t scare you like that again, I promise.’
Oh God, I nearly lost my son because I was too busy worrying about what sort of coffee to take to an interview! What sort of mother am I? Maybe I should give up all thoughts of going back to work full-time and just become an earth Mother, and do crafts with them – even though I hate crafts – and devote every moment of my existence to them to make up for my previous abject failings, in the hope that they are not too scarred by my selfishness. I mean, they seem unscarred – the only person who seemed to be traumatised by this afternoon is me, but maybe the damage is deeper and will only be revealed in their thirties when they enter therapy and realise that everything that is wrong with their life can be traced back to my dubious parenting?
Both Jane and Judgy Dog were unimpressed by Peter’s safe return.
Monday, 5 September
Argh! The job interview is THIS FRIDAY! I still have nothing to wear, but I think I need to stop worrying about that and start thinking about what I’m actually going to SAY. I haven’t been to a job interview in years. What do I tell them? Oh God, I’ll have to pretend to have hobbies and be a proper person and try not to gabble at length and fall back on my favourite conversational gambit of telling people about the interesting fact that otters have opposable thumbs. I’m pretty sure the only reason one could have to legitimately discuss otters in a job interview is if one was applying for a job as an otter wrangler or something. (Actually, that really would be my dream job. I love otters and have frequently expressed a desire to keep one in the bath. Simon does not even dignify this suggestion with a response, but I have seen Ring of Bright Water many times and think keeping an otter in the bath would be perfectly feasible – I could get reduced red label salmon from the supermarket for it to eat. And tangents like this are exactly why I get so nervous about interviews.)
I also always come out of an interview with absolutely no idea what I might have said in response to the questions and all I can do is hope that when asked, ‘Why do you think you would be the right person for this job?’ is that I replied something about my skills, qualifications and interests, and threw in something about being a team player and didn’t actually answer, ‘Because my lord and master the Dread Cthulhu thinks it would suit me. I slaughtered a black cockerel and inspected the entrails for portents and signs, and he spoke to me thus.’ But I am never sure. It’s a bit like when voting in important elections and despite carefully making sure my cross is in the right place, as soon as I pop my ballot paper into the box I am gripped with dread that I voted for the wrong one, and what if the election comes down to the wire and every vote counts and I voted wrong and now Western Civilisation will collapse and it will ALL BE MY FAULT?
I tried discussing my fears and concerns with Simon, but he is still not entirely sold on the idea of me going back to work full-time. ‘I just don’t see why you need to be full-time,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it fit in much better with the children if you are part-time, and you can be there to help with homework and make dinner and stuff? I’m not entirely sure I like the idea of them being latchkey children.’
‘They will hardly be latchkey children. I only worked part-time when they were tiny because it meant we didn’t have to spend such prodigious sums on childcare, and yes, we thought it was better if one of us could be at home with them at least some of the time. But they’re both at school full-time now, and there’s breakfast clubs and after-school clubs and in another year, Jane won’t even be at primary school. They’re not babies anymore, they don’t need me as much as they used to, and as time goes on they will need me less and less, but I might not get another opportunity like this, so I’d quite like to give it a shot.’
‘But why now? Why can’t you wait until they’re older to go full-time, and just get another part-time job? I don’t think you are really thinking about what’s best for the children here, darling.’
‘Because I want THIS job! I don’t WANT another part-time, stop-gap job. It was only ever meant to be a temporary fix, to keep the wolf from the door while the kids were little. The only vaguely interesting thing I have done to earn any money in the last eleven years was designing that Why Mummy Drinks app, which, if you may recall, did rather well. And now the children are really not that little anymore, if you haven’t noticed, so I’d quite like to do something that is a bit more stimulating, a bit more challenging, instead of babysitting the computer illiterate and explaining to Jean from Shipping for the eleventy billionth time why her computer does not “hate her” and does not “eat things”. Why is it so wrong that I want to do something for ME? What about MY hopes and ambitions? Do YOU think of what’s best for the children every time you make a career decision, or do you think about what YOU want?’
‘Well, you did literally just tell me your main ambition in life was to keep an otter in the bath,’ pointed out Simon. ‘So forgive me if I don’t try to facilitate all your dreams. And of course I think about what’s best for the children,’ he lied. ‘I just don’t think that that’s having two full-time working parents, that’s all.’
‘Well, darling,’ I said. ‘If you are so very concerned about the children’s welfare, there is a very simple solution, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Well, if I get this job, I’ll be earning as much as you. So if you are really worried about it all being a bit much with us both working full-time, you could always go part-time instead and take on responsibility for the house and the childcare?’
Simon paled. ‘Err, no, no, I’m fine, I’m sure we can make it work. If this is what you want to do, I’ll support you. No need for me to go part-time. I’m sure the children will be OK.’
‘Thank you, my love,’ I said sweetly.
Tuesday, 6 September
Ha, ha. I am READY! Bring. It. On.
The uniforms have been bought, at vast and painful expense.
Hours upon hours have been spent queuing in Clarks, desperately clutching our little ticket and glaring menacingly at any parents who look like they might be trying to queue-jump, and more appalling sums of money have been handed over for shiny new school shoes that will shortly be battered and scuffed and caked in mud, leading me to wonder why I spent eleventy billion pounds on properly fitted shoes so my precious moppets’ tiny, youthful feet will not be squashed and can develop into suitably middle-class trotters, when they couldn’t care less and will trash them within the first week. And I could have saved myself the money and effort and bought them a pair from Asda for a tenner.
Trainers and gym shoes and PE kit have been purchased. School bags and pencil cases and water bottles and what appears to be the entire bastarding contents of Smiggle are now grasped in my darlings’ sweaty paws, while they continue to whine about the unspeakable injustice of my refusal to pay £5.99 for a SINGLE RUBBER!
My hands are calloused and bleeding from sewing name tapes on to all this cornucopia of capitalist consumerism. This is due to my starry-eyed naivety when Jane started school, which led to me ordering them five
