Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading! Page 5

  Friday 26th January

  John Boy sloped into the kitchen this morning with a black eye, cut jaw and broken front tooth. He went out last night with some squaddie friends, so I accused him of fighting.

  ‘I didn’t get into a fight,’ said John Boy. ‘I fell on a concrete dog.’

  Apparently, some lads bet John Boy he couldn’t lift an ornamental Rottweiler statue, located in the Goat and Boot pub garden.

  John Boy could lift the statue. What he couldn’t do was run around the garden with it. He ended up dropping the dog, falling on it and cracking his tooth in the process.

  The black eye came from the pub landlady, whose treasured Rottweiler statue had been decapitated.

  Karma, really.

  The cracked tooth looks awful – like one of Brandi’s boyfriends.

  Keep telling John Boy to see the dentist, but he’s too afraid. John Boy doesn’t say afraid, of course. He says ‘can’t be bothered’, but I know he’s scared of dentists. I can’t say I blame John Boy for his dentist phobia – he’s got more fillings in his mouth than teeth.

  Saturday 27th January

  Have convinced John Boy to see a dentist. He’s booked in for a temporary filling on Monday.

  John Boy asked if I could come with him, because he thinks he might hit the dentist.

  This is code for, ‘I’m scared and need moral support’.

  Agreed to go and hold his hand.

  Afternoon

  Keep googling stuff about baby size, weight etc.

  Remember doing this when I was pregnant with Daisy.

  It’s nice knowing your baby is roughly the size of a grape (fruit, again), that it can hear music, etc.

  However, early pregnancy is quite boring. The baby doesn’t move around or anything, you just feel tired and rubbish, but don’t look any different.

  I like middle pregnancy, when you don’t feel that bad, but everyone makes a fuss of you and people give up their seat on the bus.

  Sunday 28th January

  Feeling pretty good today.

  Actually quite energised.

  This is a welcome surprise, because I had no reprieve from the crappy first stage of pregnancy with Daisy.

  I remember ticking off the first trimester, like a prison inmate.

  Took advantage of feeling good to visit Laura and baby Bear in London.

  Followed Mum’s ‘coping with kids on the train’ advice and strapped Daisy into the Maclaren with a jumbo-sized chocolate chip cookie, then played the ‘new shoes’ episode of Peppa Pig over and over on my iPhone.

  It was nice to catch up with Laura, but made me realise how far I fall short – both in motherhood and life.

  Laura has recently taken up baby yoga, which she loves.

  ‘You lay your baby on the mat, then bend down to kiss them,’ she explained. ‘It’s the perfect way to improve your stretch – who wouldn’t go an extra few inches to kiss their child?’

  Made a mental note never to attend mother-baby yoga. There’s no way I want my motherly love rated on how bendy I am. I can’t even touch my toes.

  Told Laura how well I’m feeling today. She was pleased and reminded me to eat lots of iron-rich foods.

  ‘You don’t want a repeat of what happened during your last pregnancy,’ said Laura. ‘Remember the anaemia?’

  Ugh. Remember pregnancy anaemia all too well.

  Dr Slaughter put me on giant iron tablets that caused black stools and terrible wind. Even Dad, who has a poor sense of smell, wouldn’t sit near me.

  ‘Which foods are high in iron, but not disgusting?’ I asked.

  Laura recommended chicken liver parfait and caviar.

  ‘They’ve delicious and not at all hard to get hold of,’ Laura enthused. ‘You can get good-quality caviar at Waitrose these days.’

  Sometimes I feel Laura was born into the wrong family.

  Admitted my diet has been awful since Christmas.

  It seemed reasonable to eat crap when I was throwing up, but now the sickness has passed I have no excuse.

  I think it’s partly to do with the weather.

  January is such a gloomy month.

  Grey skies. Dark afternoons. And nothing to look forward to.

  ‘But what about the baby?’ said Laura. ‘That’s something to look forward to.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ I said. ‘If I had my way, I’d gestate for five years. I have an uncertain relationship with the baby’s father, a toddler running around and my boiler needs hitting with a hammer three times a day. Why on earth would I look forward to the baby coming out? It’s total stress.’

  Laura persevered with the good big sister chat, asking me to focus on the positive.

  ‘You must like some healthy foods,’ she said. ‘How about fruit?’

  Admitted I haven’t eaten anything green in a while. It’s been processed food all the way.

  I take my share of the blame, but also hold John Boy partly responsible. He’s filled the salad drawer with fun-sized chocolate bars and the cupboard-under-the-sink with five-litre orange squash bottles.

  I’d like to say I can resist temptation, but that would be a blatant lie.

  I’m the opposite of self-controlled.

  I am snack-controlled.

  Monday 29th January

  Took John Boy to the dentist this morning.

  He was scared in the waiting room, but I managed to calm him down by reading to him from a stray My Little Pony comic from a wicker basket of children’s books.

  By the time we were called in, John Boy had stopped gibbering and was focused on Fluttershy and her rainy-day dilemma.

  The dentist was a stunning South African lady with honey-coloured skin and swishy blonde hair. She gave us a beautiful, gleaming white smile and told a trembling John Boy: ‘You’re in safe hands. I’ve never lost a patient yet.’

  John Boy’s internal conflict was evident.

  On one hand, he is compelled to convince any attractive woman he is a brave war hero. On the other hand, he was terrified.

  To John Boy’s credit, he did manage a joke about getting his leg blown off in Afghanistan, but his shaking hands and white face gave away his terror. He also gave a girlish whimper when the pretty dentist fired up her drill.

  John Boy now has a temporary filling, which has to stay in place until they make the real one.

  I assumed John Boy had read the aftercare pamphlet, which advised against strongly coloured foods, but I was wrong. For dinner, he ordered a ‘convalescent meal’ of tandoori chicken, tarka dal and three heavily spiced samosas.

  Now the filling has gone bright green.

  John Boy actually looked better with no tooth at all.

  Tuesday 30th January

  Morning

  John Boy’s tooth is even greener this morning.

  It’s now the shade of a frozen pea.

  John Boy isn’t the slightest bit embarrassed, calling it his ‘incredible hulk tooth’ and chasing a squealing Daisy around with his shirt open.

  Afternoon

  Alex turned up unexpectedly, just after lunch. He pulled up in his shiny MG, tyres bumping over our shaggy, uncut grass.

  John Boy couldn’t stop laughing when he saw Alex’s car.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

  ‘His number plate says FEK,’ said John Boy. ‘Fekking hell Jonathan, we’re out of Earl Grey.’

  Invited Alex inside.

  John Boy was in the kitchen, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

  ‘Hello, John Boy,’ said Alex.

  ‘Alright?’ John Boy managed. Then he squealed a hysterical, ‘Sorry!’ before running upstairs and bursting into loud laughter on the landing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Your number plate,’ I said. ‘He thinks it looks like a swear word.’

  ‘Very grown up,’ said Alex. ‘Such mature behaviour.’

  ‘It’s been good having him here,’ I said. ‘He keeps us stocked up on cereal
and Monster Munch crisps.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ I said. ‘All the tiredness and sickness seems to have gone.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop working,’ said Alex.

  ‘I like working,’ I insisted. ‘I have enjoyable conversations at the pub. It’s nice seeing grown-ups after a day with Daisy.’

  To be honest, ‘enjoyable conversations’ may be an overstatement. I like Polish Malik, but his turn-of-the century Italian literature and Russian history chats go right over my head. And Yorkie tells the same story over and over (about him winning a fight with someone twice his size).

  Polish Malik says, ‘Be quiet, Yorkie. Juliette is pregnant and tired.’

  But the last time Malik said that, Yorkie launched into a story about the time he’d defended a pregnant woman, and consequently bested a man twice his size.

  Wednesday 31st January

  Shift at the pub last night.

  Brandi looked after Daisy, which turned out to be a bad idea.

  Daisy was still awake when I finished my shift, wired on hot chocolate and marshmallows, one eye twitching, watching Game of Thrones.

  Clearly, the correct bedtime routine hadn’t been followed.

  ‘She hasn’t fallen asleep yet,’ said Brandi. ‘So she can’t be tired.’

  But Daisy never just falls asleep.

  Asked Brandi if she’d followed my ‘sleepy time’ instructions, which include:

  Doing the funky chicken dance.

  Administering ‘one more cuddle’, repeated five times.

  Singing all three verses of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

  Telling a story about the crap food Mum gave us growing up (any will do).

  Promising to tell another story tomorrow.

  Overseeing ‘a little try’ on the toilet (I’m trying to start potty training. This was a terrible idea, as I’m way too tired. But now I have introduced the idea of weeing on the toilet before bed, Daisy demands this every night).

  Answering the, ‘Just one more thing’ question – which varies each night between, ‘Um .. um … where are we going tomorrow?’ to ‘Um … um … will my new brother and sister be coming tomorrow?’

  And then dealing with variations of: ‘Um … um … have secret. Need to whisper it. I asked Father Christmas for wings.’

  ‘No,’ said Brandi. ‘I didn’t bother with any of that.’

  Had to read Daisy three bedtime stories and do the Hokey Cokey before she fell asleep, thumb in mouth.

  I’m getting worried about her thumb sucking now. Her teeth are already crooked. Need to break the habit before her big teeth come in.

  John Boy still sucks his thumb, which I assumed would have been a source of teasing in the army. But apparently, it wasn’t.

  ‘When you sleep in a dormful of men,’ said John Boy, ‘thumb sucking is the least of your worries.’

  Thursday 1st February

  Alex turned up this evening, unannounced.

  John Boy and I were sitting on the sofa eating Pringles, when there was a curt knock on the door.

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ said John Boy. ‘Only debt collectors knock like that.’

  After assuring John Boy that my financial situation isn’t that bad, I opened the door.

  Was surprised to see Alex on the doorstep, and embarrassed to be wearing my unflattering Minnie Mouse pyjamas.

  Invited Alex in for a cup of tea and some Pringles, but warned him I’d be going to bed soon – it was already seven o’clock.

  Alex asked why John Boy’s tooth was bright green.

  ‘I was lifting a concrete dog,’ said John Boy, pulling his shoulders back in that confrontation way men do.

  Alex pulled his shoulders back too and said, ‘That makes no sense whatsoever.’

  I told the story.

  ‘You should get that green tooth seen to,’ Alex told John Boy.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ said John Boy. ‘I’ve been telling girls I’m a horror movie extra. I’ve got a few phone numbers out of it, and one shag behind the back of Wetherspoons.’

  Alex pulled a disgusted face and said, ‘Juliette, I brought something for you.’ He handed over a luxurious holiday brochure. ‘It’s details about the cruise. I hoped you might change your mind and come along.’

  ‘I really can’t, Alex,’ I said. ‘My parents need me to work. No one else is trained to get rid of Yorkie at closing time.’

  ‘I rang your father on the way over,’ said Alex. ‘He’s happy for you to have the time off. Your sister has some time on her hands and can cover your shifts. Your father mentioned this ‘Yorkie’ character, and said he’s frightened of your little sister, so there’s no problem there. And your parents will look after Daisy.’

  ‘They said they’d do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Your father said so.’

  ‘For a whole week?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I’d feel so guilty,’ I protested.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Daisy could be traumatised.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Alex. ‘The French aristocracy used to pack their children off to countryside nannies for the first three years of their lives. A week won’t hurt Daisy.’

  ‘Weren’t the French aristocracy all executed?’ I asked.

  ‘Most of them, yes,’ Alex conceded. ‘But pre-revolution, they were a very happy, talented bunch.’

  ‘It does look very relaxing,’ I admitted, eyeing the glossy pictures of models eating lobster on a glittering sun deck. ‘And I do need a break. I regretted not taking Mum up on the Corfu holiday offer. Tell me more about the cruise – what are the dates?’

  ‘Mid-March,’ said Alex. ‘Are you free for lunch tomorrow? We can talk over practicalities.’

  ‘In Great Oakley?’ I asked.

  ‘London.’

  ‘When will you be able to leave the city, Alex?’ I asked. ‘When I’m in labour? When the baby comes?’

  Alex kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘I’m working on having more free time. That’s what this year is all about.’

  Agreed to lunch, as long as Alex picked somewhere Daisy-friendly.

  ‘I know the perfect place,’ said Alex. ‘Wonderful for families.’

  ‘What’s it called?’ I asked.

  ‘Catrina Dalton’s place.’

  ‘Your mother’s house?’ I said, in a slightly higher pitch than I meant to.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘It’s about time you two got to know each other. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Of course not!’ I said, in an even higher pitch. Then I did a fake laugh to cover up my massive lie.

  So we are meeting at Catrina Dalton’s apartment tomorrow for Hungarian Goulash.

  Alex claims Catrina’s Goulash is ‘restaurant quality’, but Laura says different.

  ‘Bring a handbag that can fit a Tupperware tub,’ Laura advised. ‘Then spoon the goulash into the tub when no one is looking. Just make sure you bring a handbag you don’t like very much, because it will smell of cumin forever more. Catrina doesn’t mess around with her spices.’

  This is a typical ladylike Laura solution to an awkward situation.

  Friday 2nd February

  Lunch with Alex and Catrina Dalton today.

  Could have been better.

  Could have been worse.

  Had a nightmare working out what to wear.

  I stupidly googled Catrina Dalton, and discovered she was voted Marie Clare’s best-dressed woman in 1984.

  There are also multiple pictures of Catrina on Google images, circa 1980, with her signature blonde pleat and dazzling pearly teeth, wearing power business suits with gold-chain decoration and crushed velvet ball-gowns.

  The pictures sent me into a panic, and I ended up phoning Laura in stupid hormonal girl tears.

  Laura had a courier service drive me over some ultra-stylish outfits, but of course they were all too tight and long. Fashionable women don’t have boobs or generous botto
ms. Also, they don’t go out in winter – everything had three-quarter length sleeves.

  In the end, I realised it didn’t really matter what I wore. Even if I could magic up the perfect outfit, I don’t have the perfect body to put in it.

  Decided on skinny jeans and a nice black jumper.

  The driver picked us at 11am.

  Daisy was excited to see the big, black car, shouting, ‘Rex, Rex!’

  Quite sweet how fond she is of Alex.

  Felt increasingly nervous as we drove through London.

  Catrina lives in West London, land of glossy teeth and hair. It’s no place for children, or women who’ve had children.

  We pulled up outside a sandy-bricked Georgian building, where a blue-lipped doorman stood by lollipop bay trees.

  Alex waited on the pavement outside, hands stoically behind his back.

  ‘Good trip?’ he asked, opening our car door. ‘Traffic not too bad?’

  Daisy said, ‘Smelly car.’

  I laughed gaily.

  Alex unstrapped Daisy and helped her out of the car. Then he said in a low voice, ‘Just to let you know, my mother has had some surgery. She may not want to entertain for long.’

  ‘Is she okay?’ I asked, climbing out of the car. ‘Should we do this another time?’

  ‘It was just a cosmetic procedure,’ Alex assured me. ‘She’s very keen to meet you, Juliette. There’s no getting out of it.’

  ‘She’s already met me,’ I said. ‘Several times.

  ‘Yes, but … not properly.’ Alex picked up Daisy, then took my hand. ‘She’s never had you over for goulash.’

  The doorman opened the door, tilting his top hat as he did so.

  Alex gave the doorman a manly clap on the shoulder. ‘Thanks Philip. How are things?’

  ‘Very good, Mr Dalton,’ said the doorman. ‘Could you have another word with your mother? She’s still calling me Johnathon.’

  The lobby area had a 1930s feel, with cut-crystal vases of white flowers and old-fashioned wooden letter holders. A big, sweeping marble staircase led to apartments on the first floor.