I’m not usually someone who spends a lot of time thinking about themselves as it makes me slightly uncomfortable. I don’t think there’s a deep well within me that I need to understand and I’m generally too busy getting on with the stuff we all have to do. However, in this case, I feel some answers need to be sought.
The thing is, I want my kids’ names everywhere. I don’t have a piece of jewellery that doesn’t have their initials on it and almost every bowl at home has their names painted on the base – even the bread board didn’t get off unscathed as their names are chiselled into the side of it. My friends laugh at me, my husband thinks I’m weird and the children are mortified.
Each time I gave birth, once I’d turned ‘Wonderwall’ down, said thank you to the doctor and paid the manicurist (I’m only a bit joking) I had to be physically stopped from rushing to a tattoo parlour shouting, ‘I want a massive J on my upper arm, or better yet, my forehead.’ I didn’t do it, but I still like the idea of having them stamped on me 24/7. If I’m talking about the foxtrot, chatting with friends over chips, mulling over the right way to say ‘more to come’ in a voice-over booth I’d like to look down and see their names, their marks on me at all times. This would be entirely embarrassing for them and is unlikely to be pleasing to the eye.
In place of tattooing myself, as they grew up, I felt compelled to get them personalised lunch boxes and t-shirts. I wondered if I could put their names on their trainers (not just with a black sharpie on the inside). I’m about the only person who loves sewing those name labels into their uniforms. There it is, her name, his name. Maybe we’ll put two name tapes on this coat as one is bound to fall off. Maybe I’ll secrete a label into my own jacket too, when they’re not looking. I just sit there with the needle and thread, smiling to myself. My fingers are sometimes bleeding (I have terrible eyesight) but I’m happy, holding tiny tapes with their names printed on.
I discovered one evening that I could order canvas holdalls from America with their initials on – quick, they’re awake in Vermont and they’ll ship! I’ll call them and order immediately. And imagine my joy when notonthehighstreet.com started up. You can get names put on plant pots, Tupperware, Christmas stockings, the lot. I went bananas. Nobody had a jacket or a pencil that didn’t have their name on it. In bold. We have an Arthur door stop (I’m being perfectly serious) and Matilda and Jake hooks in the hall (what is the matter with me). Their beach towels have their names on, as do little boxes that sit next to the bath.
I once had a meeting with a very impressive business person and explained that I wanted to give up television and just run a small shop that had an engraver and wood carver so people could come and order personalised butter dishes and blankets that could be monogrammed. That’s right, he looked at me like I was unwell and told me to stick to reading out loud.
So why do I do it? Uncharacteristically, I’ve felt compelled to have a think about this. Is it perhaps a lucky thing? Is it really so they feel close to me? I’m a working mum so perhaps it’s because I want to feel like they’re somehow not far away, making me feel less guilty. But that theory doesn’t really work as their names are all over the house, they’re not just on my jewellery, they’re everywhere.
The irony is that I hardly ever use their ‘official’ names, the ones on their birth certificates – I use Puffin, Puppy, Owl, Sausage, Rabbit, whatever comes to hand. So why do I need to be reminded of them all the time?
I think, and I’m not being faux harsh here, that I’m bragging. Not really to others but mainly to myself. We made them, I gave birth to them, we have fed and clothed them and watched them get bigger and, not only that, I like them. We made nice people. But most of all, what I think it is, is that these three kids, each of their names, they’re mine (for a bit) and they’re at home.
It’s a prickly truth and one I’ve only just worked out. I’m slightly mortified, embarrassed, ashamed. I thought that it was simply about me loving them, or even just liking their initials. But that really can’t be right as my kids’ initials spell out JAM. I know. It isn’t even in my top ten of things to put on toast. Perhaps it’s a good thing I didn’t get that tattoo.