‘WELCOME, EVERYONE.’ Yvonne clasped her hands together. ‘We are so delighted that you were able to make it here tonight to get a chance to meet each other and see some of the wonderful work your children have been doing.’ She gestured behind her to a wall covered in multicoloured paint splodges and an array of colourful card with pieces of pasta glued onto them in haphazard shapes. ‘Please do mingle and help yourself to refreshments.’
Next to Yvonne was a small table bearing plastic cups of tepid white wine and some wilted sandwiches.
An evening of attempting to make friends with Gigi’s new friends’ parents was the last thing I needed after a stressful day at work trying to come up with a plan to take down a business that was getting colleagues killed and threatening the way all our Security Services operated.
Long ago I had determined to avoid any event that required me to wear a name badge. No fun was ever had anywhere you needed to announce your name to anyone casting a glance at your left breast. Yet here I was, ‘Alexis Tyler, Gigi’s Proud Mummy!’ stuck on the lapel of my leather jacket. I looked around the room wishing Will hadn’t got stuck at work. I needed an ally.
I walked over to the table and picked up a plastic cup of warm white wine, took a sip and winced. Right. Now to ‘mingle’. Why did that sound about as appealing as ‘torture’? The other parents seemed already deep in conversation with one another. I recognised one mother from the morning drop-offs; we had yet to break through the weather small-talk barrier.
I walked around the classroom, cup in hand. At the wall at the back there was a display titled ‘My Family’, so I looked for Gigi’s. There we were. Somewhat creepily, mine, Will and Gigi’s heads had been cut out of the family photo I had dutifully supplied one morning and stuck on stick figures made out of penne pasta pieces that were all holding hands.
‘Jesus, this is terrifying. Why have we all been impaled by angry pasta?’ A man in a suit had joined me and was staring at the wall, grimacing.
I smiled. ‘Which happy family are you?’
‘Here we are.’ The man pointed to the one next to Gigi’s. His wife was blonde, and with those jutting cheekbones I doubted her body was much more filled out than the pasta stick figure on which her photo was currently stuck. Her pasta body was holding hands with a round baby head of indeterminate sex and a frowning white-blonde-haired girl I recognised from drop-offs.
‘Oh right, so you’re Florence’s dad. Gigi talks about her a lot.’ I remembered the anonymous bite victim and made a silent prayer that I wasn’t about to be on the receiving end of a lecture on violent pre-schoolers.
‘Yes, that’s me. Florence’s dad. Although my name outside of this Portakabin is Frederick.’ He held out a hand. It felt strangely formal considering the setting. I shook it. Was it my imagination or did he hold it just a moment too long?
‘Alexis.’ I motioned to my name badge. ‘But everyone calls me Lex. Nice to meet you.’ I nodded my head towards their family portrait. ‘She has your eyes.’ I really thought it was just something people always said when they didn’t know what to say when admiring a baby or child. But in this case Florence really did have Frederick’s eyes. Piercing blue with a fleck of green. She didn’t share the rest of his features – strong jawline, coiffed dirty-blond hair. And thankfully the delicate little two-year-old did not have his build. He was broad shouldered, and his white shirt seemed to be straining to fit what looked like a very defined torso.
‘The photo doesn’t really look anything like me but I do look just like that under my clothes.’ He motioned towards the penne.
I laughed. ‘Now that’s something I’d like to see.’
‘I . . . Well . . .’ He looked surprised, then smirked.
Shit.
‘I mean . . . that would be funny, if you really were made of pasta. How could you be? I mean, where would the food go? I’d better check where my husband is. Yes, my husband. Right. Bye.’
Abort. Abort. Mission abandoned.
I headed for the door, nodding a few hellos along the way, downed the wine and dropped my plastic cup in the bin on the way out. What the hell was wrong with me? Could I not make it through a standard social evening without imploding? One encounter with a Hot Dad and I was simpering about wanting to see him naked. I was acting like a highly-sexed desperado. It’s not like I was deprived. Or was I? I tried to think of the last time Will and I had sex. It couldn’t have been that long ago. There was that time last week. Or was it last month? I had a vague recollection of Will murmuring a post-coital ‘I think we’ve got time for one more’ and the relief when I realised he meant another episode of Game of Thrones.
I just needed some perspective. Yes, I had embarrassed myself in front of a fellow parent at Gigi’s nursery by implying I wanted to see him naked. But chances were I wouldn’t see him again.
Apart from potentially every drop-off and pick-up.
And then just at any school event.
I thought back to the detailed school calendar we had been sent. There was an upcoming harvest festival, a Halloween party, fireworks night, nativity play, Easter bonnet parade, spring bake sale, summer concert, sports day.
How did a two-year-old have such a packed social schedule? And why couldn’t I at least wait until the end of the school year to make a tit of myself?
Why did parenting never get easier?
Will and I had celebrated when we survived the first year: the constant waking in the night, teething, explosive nappies. And just when I felt like I was finally finding my way, a new set of challenges were catapulted at me: fussy eating, tantrumming, potty-training. Now it seemed biting was part of the repertoire too. And if all that wasn’t enough, always in the background was the fear that I was screwing this up. Screwing her up.
Will always did what came naturally to him. Didn’t overthink things. She worshipped him; whether it was being chased squealing round the house by the Tickle Monster, to weekday afternoons spent in the park, just the two of them, hunting conkers and holding hands. He’d sneak away early from the office, citing a meeting, and I’d come home to find them out there, kicking leaves and eating ice cream, no matter the weather. I’d ask ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll get in trouble?’ and he’d shrug and say, ‘Fuck ’em. I missed her.’ He adored her and knowing that he was her father, that he therefore knew what was best for her, gave him all the confidence he needed.
But I felt the crushing responsibility of raising a daughter. I found myself poring over parenting articles. Reading the latest studies. Listening attentively when more knowledgeable mothers waxed lyrical about what was expected. I now overthought everything to a terrifying degree. I feared an offhand comment here, a simple observation there, would have the butterfly effect of determining the type of person she was going to become.
It meant any given everyday situation was suddenly a cause for concern.
At playgroup:
‘Here you go, sweetheart.’ I handed Gigi a doll. There I was, gender stereotyping again. ‘You can have this too.’ I quickly gave her a truck. ‘Play with what you want. You can do anything you want.’
‘I want doll.’
‘OK, that’s great. But remember you can have the truck too.’
A visit to my mother:
‘Now go and give Granny a kiss.’ There I was, forcing her to be physical with someone against her will.
A playground altercation:
‘He doesn’t mean it when he pulls your hair. He’s doing it because he likes you.’ Now I was teaching her that it didn’t matter if men hurt you as that was how they showed affection.
A new dress:
‘You look so pretty.’ Oh God, I mustn’t focus on her looks. ‘I mean, you look so clever.’ I need to show her that intelligence and personality are more important. But how can I celebrate her brains when she’s only two and a half and can only scribble and count to seven? Maybe I big up every little achievement. A big HURRAH for zipping up her coat. But then won’t that give her an inflated sense of self-worth? Will I be giving her a big ego and she will expect praise every time she wipes her own bum? Actually, I really would give her praise for that – when does that start?
Doing up her Velcro trainers:
‘Let me do that.’ I was teaching her not to be self-reliant. ‘I mean, keep on trying, you’re doing a great job.’ She needs to learn how to solve her own problems. That perseverance is eventually rewarded with success. Even if it does take her twenty minutes to fasten up a Velcro strip . . . Even if it takes all day . . . Oh fuck it, we’re late. ‘Come on, I’ve done it, let’s go.’
Going to have her hair cut:
‘No, darling, we aren’t going to keep the fringe – Daddy doesn’t like it.’ A man’s opinion on your appearance is more important than your own. ‘I mean, Mummy and Daddy don’t like it.’ We are in charge and we determine how you will look. ‘I mean, you don’t like it.’ I am telling you your own opinion. ‘You know what? Keep the fringe if you like it.’ You’re the boss and I have no control over you.
This nagging internal monologue could take over any interaction.
Even telling her I loved her:
‘I love you, Gigi.’ She carried on playing with her doll. I nudged her. ‘I said I love you.’
‘Love you, Mama.’ I was forcing her to declare love. Teaching her that to be loved you have to love. There was no unconditional love.
It was an absolute minefield. The demands, the worry, the all-encompassing need to keep her safe, the endless pressure to raise her right. To do the best job to give her the best start. The weight of expectation was exhausting. No wonder there were days when Rat felt more natural to me than Mother.
It was less pressure when the only life on the line was yours.