They can see my legs. I could react with tears or anger. I, as usual, choose the latter to mask the former.
‘Now look what you made me do!’ I yell, jumping to my feet, desperately gathering my torn skirt so I can hold it shut with my hands. They say nothing but look at me with as much disdain as their job description will allow.
I have to get out of here. I can’t face these women again. Not now they have seen my legs.
‘You know what? I’ve been unhappy with this place for a while. You feed them too many snacks. Bonnie never eats her dinner,’ I say, charging toward the closed nursery door.
‘Ruby, the children are about to start their music class. Let’s leave them to it, shall we?’
I ignore Miss Tabitha. I have to get out of here. They saw my legs. Oh God, they saw my legs. I open the door to the nursery, all of the children turning to look. I walk over to Bonnie and tell her to come with me.
‘No,’ she stomps.
‘Bonnie, come with Mummy please. It’s time to go.’
‘No. No,’ she screams, lying down flat on the floor.
‘Come on!’ I say, calm but stern, acting like I have a total grip of this situation. I am her mother. She can behave this way, but ultimately has to do what I say. I try again.
‘Up now please, Bonnie. We have to go.’
She is now cataclysmic. Screeching and writhing, desperate to be saved from the horror of more time with me. I feel the same agony, but I cannot back down. I keep hold of my skirt with one hand, not allowing the split to open again.
‘Right, Bonnie, enough!’ I say, as I pick her up with my spare hand. I don’t know how I manage it, sheer desperation maybe, but soon she is up and on my hip. She kicks and pulls but I hold her as tight as I can and I storm out of the room. Teachers try to stop me, but I need to get out of here. And I can’t come back. Not now they have seen my legs.
I pick the stroller up with my left hand and carry both Bonnie and it out of the door and on to the street. The split wide open. Why oh why would this happen on the day I didn’t wear tights?
I call Liam. The phone rings out. I call again. No answer. He texts immediately.
Sorry, in Amsterdam at this conference. Everything OK?
Damn it, I forgot he’s away this week. I tell him nothing is wrong. He replies again with a picture of a very unattractive dog he said he saw.
Can you show this to Bonnie? She loves a dog!
I don’t reply.
My phone rings out twice, then rings again. I’d put it back in my bag and am desperately trying to retrieve it while Bonnie screams in her buggy.
‘I want to go back to nursery,’ she chants. I want her to go back too, but I am too distressed to turn around. They think I’m crazy. They saw my legs. I can never go back. Ever.
By the time I find my phone I see that I have three missed calls from my mother. She hasn’t called me in around three months. Why now? It’s like she knows. I am having a disastrous parenting moment and she is right there to rub it in.
I struggle on for a while and we come to the entrance of a park. I push Bonnie in, and let her out of her buggy. She immediately runs off and starts collecting sticks and leaves, happy. I take a seat on a bench and call my mother back, taking in a long slow breath before I do.
‘Who is this?’ she asks when she answers. She is drunk, I can tell.
‘Hello, Mum, I saw that you called.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m in a park with Bonnie,’ I tell her, knowing this mood well, and knowing that detailed responses are pointless. ‘Just calling back to check you’re alive.’
‘Like you care, you little beast,’ she says, followed by a cackle so loud I put my hand over my phone to make sure no one else in the park hears it.
‘Don’t be unkind, Mother.’
‘What did you say?’ she asks, her tone instantly snapping into defence mode.
‘I said, please don’t be unkind. I don’t like it when you call me that.’
‘Oooo, she doesn’t like it when I call her that. She gets all upset. The poor ugly beast.’
‘Mother, did you want something specific because if not I am going to go.’
‘I’m going to kill myself,’ she says. Suddenly deadpan.
‘Don’t do that,’ I tell her, as I have done so many times over the years.
‘You can’t stop me. I’m going to do it tonight.’
‘No you won’t,’ I say.
‘Yes I will.’
‘Why?’ I ask her, wondering if this might be the one miraculous time I get an answer.
‘Shut up. It’s not like you care about me—’
I hold the phone away from my ear while she continues to rant abuse.
‘Are you done?’ I ask, after a minute or so. She seems to be and goes quiet. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go.’ I brace myself for the next stab.
‘Go on then. Piss off. If your own mother doesn’t love you, who will?’ she says, before hanging up.
I feel tears begin to well in my eyes as I watch Bonnie play happily without me. I know the second I tell her we need to leave, she will act just like my mother does towards me. Screaming, kicking, yelling, telling me she doesn’t love me, acting like my very presence in her life is unbearable. I never imagined that becoming a parent would be like reliving my adolescence. Minus the cruel name at least. Mum has called me ‘The Beast’ ever since she burst in on me in the shower when I was sixteen. It’s why I never dare risk my own child seeing me naked. Who only knows what cruel salutations a toddler might come up with.
How does everyone else make parenting look so easy?
‘Move please,’ says a man who is standing in front of me, blocking my view of Bonnie.
‘Excuse me?’ I reply, with a certain amount of attitude.
‘Please move from the bench,’ he repeats. ‘Please.’
‘I absolutely will not move from this bench. I was here first. I’m watching my daughter.’
‘Look, I’d really appreciate it if you would go and sit over there. Please,’ he says calmly, still laden with something heavy. ‘You don’t understand. Please, just move.’
He points to an empty bench a few metres away. I can’t be bothered to fight him – I have had enough conflict for one morning and need a break.
