Rebecca Smith - More Than Just Mum

Nick raises his eyebrows at me. ‘I think you’re being a little bit dramatic there, Hannah. He’s got a whole year to grow up and anyway, it’s secondary school, not prison.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ I mutter darkly, pulling my shoes off the rack next to the door. ‘You’re not there all week.’

‘Neither are you,’ Nick points out, slightly unreasonably. ‘I’ll drive – I want to check if Betty’s new windscreen wipers work.’

He hasn’t got a clue. He doesn’t see the kids scurrying down our school corridors like there’s a herd of zombies hot on their heels. He isn’t the one who has to lurk outside the girls’ toilets, ready to catch the smokers red-handed. He isn’t here after school when Scarlet and Dylan (although mostly Scarlet, to be honest) regale us with terrifying stories of crime and punishment that never make it as far as the staff room. And Benji is our baby . It was only two minutes ago that he couldn’t wear shoes without Velcro.

I yell up the stairs, telling the older two that we’ll be back soon, and then we head out into the dark. It’s a clear night without a cloud in the sky and the stars are out in force. I stand for a second, wondering when the world got so big.

The sound of Betty roaring to life jolts me back to the task in hand. I clamber into the Land Rover and we rattle our way up the road, the heater making a complete song and dance about being turned on full. It clearly has little man syndrome because it certainly isn’t producing anything even vaguely warming. Nick flicks the wipers on and they manage two half-hearted swipes of the glass before freezing in position across the windscreen and I have to endure the rest of the journey listening to him mutter about how he just can’t understand it and he fitted them perfectly and he read the instruction manual and watched a YouTube video and there’s no reason at all why they shouldn’t be working.

I love my husband very much but when he gets started on the topic of Land Rover maintenance I am sometimes tempted to shove his diff lock where the sun doesn’t shine.

We get to Logan’s house and his mother opens the door, depositing a teary and rather subdued-looking Benji onto the front step.

‘I’m sorry, Mum!’ he says, the instant that he sees me. ‘I just felt weird and you said to call you if I wasn’t okay.’

I pull him into a hug and Logan’s mum nods understandingly at me over the top of his head.

Oh god. He should be sorry. She probably thinks that he’s a complete wimp and that I have failed in my duty to provide him with the life skills that he should have acquired by the ripe old age of ten. She’ll tell all the other mums and they’ll mock me behind my back, saying that I baby him because he’s my last child and I’m incapable of letting him grow up.

‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘And you don’t need to be sorry.’

Logan’s mum hands me his rucksack. ‘I think all his things are in there. We’ve put Teddy’s arm in a sling but it’s possible that he’s going to need a bit of surgery.’

I look gratefully at her and raise my eyebrows. ‘Kids, hey?’

She smiles. ‘I know – and we haven’t even started on the teenage years with Logan yet! Speaking of which, I saw your Scarlet walking out of the park yesterday morning when I was coming back from yoga. She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Have you thought about sending her photo off to one of those modelling agencies?’

‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea,’ I tell her, shuddering. ‘She’s difficult enough to handle as it is, without getting any big ideas from a bunch of supermodels.’

Logan’s mum laughs gently. ‘And you must join us one of these days. Honestly – one hot yoga session with Orlando and you won’t ever look back!’

I open my mouth with the intention of making a hilarious quip about the fact that yoga is supposed to aid flexibility, and therefore surely my ability to look back would only be improved after a session with hot Orlando, but then I pause. Some of the mothers in the school playground take their exercise regimes incredibly seriously and the last thing I need right now is to piss off the PTA.

‘Maybe one day!’ I trill, trying to look like attending a yoga class isn’t my definition of hell.

I usher Benji towards the garden gate where Nick is waiting. And then a thought hits me and I spin round.

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘it can’t have been Scarlet who you saw, because I dropped her at school myself yesterday.’

But Logan’s mum has closed the door. Benji trips over his own feet and starts to wail.

When we get home, the fairy lights are on outside the front door. I always put them on if Scarlet or Dylan are coming home late but I was in too much of a rush to think about doing it tonight. One of them must have come downstairs and switched them on while we were getting Benji.

We get inside and I’m intending on scooting him upstairs to bed, but as we walk into the living room, I see Scarlet and Dylan draped across the sofa.

‘Hey!’ calls Scarlet. ‘We heard you were coming home. It’s just as well – the house was too quiet without you here.’

‘Get over here, little dude,’ says Dylan, opening his arms.

Benji dashes across the room and flings himself down between them, snuggling his feet onto Scarlet’s lap and his head against Dylan’s shoulder. Nick and I sit down, and we spend the next fifteen minutes watching our teenage children comfort, reassure and finally get a smile out of their little brother.

*

It isn’t until Sunday lunchtime that I finally get to discuss my new plan with the rest of the family. Nick cooks a roast dinner and I wait until everyone’s plate is full before clearing my throat and getting their attention.

‘I have an announcement to make,’ I say, hitting my water glass with my fork.

Nick cringes and puts out his hand to stop me. ‘Don’t do that, Hannah. Those glasses are only cheap. They’ll shatter if you look at them the wrong way.’

‘An announcement!’ Scarlet’s reaction is far more satisfying than my boring health-and-safety-conscious husband, so I turn to her, a big smile on my face. ‘Are you finally going to let me change my name to Scarlett with two ts, which is obviously how it was supposed to be spelt in the first place?’

I squint at her, wondering what she’s wittering on about now.

‘No, and I have no idea why you would think that’s what I’m about to say. Anyway, I’m really excited to be talking to you guys about this. So, the thing is—’

‘We’re going somewhere amazing on holiday, aren’t we!’ squeals Scarlet. ‘Oh my god, Mum! Where is it? Is it America?’

‘Is it Disneyland?’ yells Benji. ‘Logan went there last year and he said it was fantastic. You can go on rides and eat candy floss and meet Mickey Mouse and—’

‘It’s not Disneyland, numbnuts.’ Scarlet waves her hand, dismissing Benji’s suggestion. ‘Can you imagine Dad somewhere like that?’

We all turn to look at Nick, who is staring at us all like we’ve grown three heads.

‘What are you going on about?’ he asks. ‘And can you please eat this roast before it goes cold.’

‘We’re just saying that you wouldn’t be seen dead at Disneyland,’ Dylan informs him, ramming a huge piece of chicken into his mouth. ‘You know. Not with all that expectation that you might actually have a good time.’

Nick frowns. ‘You’re damn right I wouldn’t. What a waste of money! I don’t need some wet-behind-the-ears, spotty juvenile in a mouse costume telling me that it’s time to enjoy myself, thank you very much.’

Scarlet groans. ‘Well, not everyone is a killjoy like you, Dad.’