The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks. Fiona Gibson
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which I’d bought with the intention of being a good wife and mother; a provider of wholesome fare.
Well, fuck that.
I started to write, and out it all poured, fuelled by L’Ondice lady petrol: all the minor faults, the major faults and everything in between. Of course, this wasn’t really about mousetraps, the occasional dog poo left on the lawn or any of that. It was years’ worth of stuff, tumbling out – about how Nate, who was supposed to love me, viewed me now. I used to be a person, supposedly with talent and an identity of my own, way back in some previous life. Jewellery was my passion; I was a silversmith. Things had taken off quickly after I’d graduated from art college; I’d been featured in glossy magazines and my pieces were being stocked by several major stores. I was, as one journalist put it, ‘a shining star of the jewellery world’. But not anymore. I was just there, keeping things going, invisible to the man I’d once loved.
‘How was Flynn, when you explained everything?’ Abby asks now.
‘On the surface, he took it pretty well,’ I reply. ‘I just sort of rattled it all out and he sat there in silence, taking it in. You know how he is, Abs. He puts a brave face on everything. And as for Nate …’
‘He’ll be okay eventually,’ she says gently, squeezing my hand. ‘But it’s going to take time. It’ll be tough on all of you, but you did what felt right.’
I nod. ‘Yes, but I’m a bloody idiot …’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The way I tried to make things seem better for Flynn, you know? With promises of a room in the home I have yet to find—’
‘He’s always welcome here, you know that …’
‘Thank you. I do know, and I appreciate it so much.’ I pause and sip my wine. ‘I suggested we could get together over a milkshake. A milkshake!’ I repeat, sensing my cheeks burning. ‘What was I thinking? He’s sixteen years old!’
‘Hey,’ Abby says gently. ‘I bet he won’t mind what you do as long as you spend time together.’
‘That is, if he doesn’t hate me …’
‘Of course he won’t hate you,’ she exclaims. ‘Flynn adores you. Come on, this isn’t making you feel any better …’
‘I’m sorry, I just seem to offload to you all the time …’
‘Offload away,’ Abby says, smiling now. ‘You’ve done the same for me, plenty of times.’
I muster a smile too. ‘Well, I’m so grateful, Abs. You are brilliant, you know that?’
She shrugs off the compliment and pushes back her long blonde hair. Dressed in a simple black shift, with minimal make-up, her brand of pub manager is sleekly groomed rather than OTT glamour. Although she is very much my friend – the one she confided in during those failed rounds of IVF, and then her divorce – I first got to know her through Nate, when he and a big bunch of mates shared a house.
We channel-hop now, finally settling on a soothing nature documentary about seals. We share the rest of the bottle of wine and, by the time we say goodnight at around 1 a.m., I am slightly light-headed – yet again.
What kind of mother am I? I reflect as I climb into bed in Abby’s spare room. I drink too much. Worse still, I have abandoned my lovely boy who needs me. And I can’t even bring myself to set a mousetrap, for goodness’ sake! How can that be, when I’ve dealt with the numerous challenges of raising Flynn? But that’s just me. Recently, I seem to have become fearful of quite a few silly things. I don’t know whether it’s age, or hormones, or what. Maybe Rachel might have some ideas?
At our last session, I’d told her how I’d tried to keep my business going as a new mum. However, Flynn was a terrible sleeper and my determination to graft away into the night soon proved impossible. Even when he finally learnt to distinguish night from day, his early years were filled with medical and therapeutic appointments. Although Nate and I never discussed it, the person to take charge of such matters – and accompany him on virtually all of these – was me.
And so orders fell away, and Sinead Hogan, so-called shining star, was replaced by Sinead Turner in ratty old jeans and a faded sweatshirt, fringe home-cut, face devoid of make-up and frankly knackered. I once went to apply some mascara for a party and discovered that it had entirely solidified. My jewellery equipment and materials were either sold or packed away in boxes and stashed in the attic. My old filing cabinet, in which I’d stored years’ worth of magazine clippings, scribbled notes and designs, was shunted into what we have always referred to, optimistically, as our ‘guest room’, and which is now entirely filled with junk.
It wasn’t as if Nate pushed me into any of that. It was my choice to put my business on hold; I wanted to be a full-time mum, and no other job was as thrilling and rewarding – or downright terrifying when it was suggested that Flynn’s development wasn’t following the expected curves. Weren’t all babies different? I insisted, belligerently. What did health visitors and GPs know? What could paediatric neurologists and behavioural development specialists actually tell us, with their decades of study and experience in impaired muscle coordination and control?
‘They just want to label him,’ I protested to Nate – as if there was a ‘them’ and ‘us’. Like these kindly professionals were trying to put our baby into some kind of box, just to be difficult. There were numerous scans, examinations and tests. We joked, rather bleakly, that we should be issued with hospital loyalty cards.
Eventually, a grey-bearded consultant explained that Flynn – who was by then nine months old – had cerebral palsy. No, we didn’t ‘cause’ it, he insisted. It had nothing to do with the wine I’d drunk at our friends’ wedding, plus tequila shots, ill-advised gin jellies and God knows what else I’d tipped down my throat before we’d realised I was pregnant.
Eventually, Nate insisted that I had to stop beating myself up or I’d go mad. It took a long time for me to trust these unfailingly kind professionals and not assume everyone was lying to us. If someone had said, ‘Your son has this condition because you’ve worn thongs/took ecstasy – once, in 1992, and nothing actually happened’ – then they’re the ones I’d have believed. Our consultant suggested that I wanted someone, or something, to blame. As our baby’s carrier for forty weeks, it seemed that had to be me.
I tried to explain this to Nate, but he brushed me off, implying that I was being silly and even hysterical. Eventually I stopped talking about it as it just seemed to cause rows. Meanwhile, we threw everything into being Flynn’s parents. He was our little hero, and our entire life, and when one aspect of life is all-consuming, other things tend to be forgotten. Like paying parking fines on time and sending Nate’s mother a birthday present (somehow, since I’d let my business slide, attending to such matters had become my job). We forgot about wedding anniversaries, and rarely had nights out, despite numerous offers of babysitting. For the most part, we even forgot about having sex. Let’s just say our cars had oil changes more regularly than Nate and I were getting it together. And somewhere along the way, we lost ourselves.
For a while, I assumed the real problem was money, and it was certainly tight. I knew this was partially my fault. All through Flynn’s primary school years I was a non-working person, which sometimes seemed to tip into being a non-person. But I accepted that, because Flynn was surpassing all expectations and growing up into the sunniest, most determined and delightful boy. CP was just a part of him, like his love of dogs and fascination with his dad’s vast record collection.
By the time Flynn was twelve I had an overwhelming urge to return to work. Jewellery was far too precarious an option, and by then I was lamentably out of touch with trends and potential retail outlets. Plus, as Nate often pointed out – quite rightly – our debts were mounting and we needed another regular income. Pre-parenthood he’d scraped a living through teaching guitar, playing in bands and driving musicians, plus their gear, the length and breadth of Britain. He’d enjoyed the driving part so much, he’d eventually