Rebecca Smith - More Than Just Mum

‘That’s what I want to talk to you all about,’ I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘I wanted to see if you have any ideas.’

In my head, they all take a moment to consider my talents and attributes before offering helpful and exciting job suggestions.

In reality, they react before the words are barely out of my mouth.

‘You could work at the supermarket,’ says Dylan. ‘You’re always saying that it’s your second home.’

‘One of my friends has started doing Saturday shifts at Nando’s and he gets free chicken,’ Scarlet tells me. ‘You could see if they’ve got any vacancies there.’

‘Mmmm,’ groans Dylan appreciatively, in his best Homer Simpson voice. ‘Free chicken.’

I force a smile. ‘I was rather thinking of a job that would utilise my years of experience. You know, something where my transferable skills will really come into their own.’

‘So we need to identify your transferable skills,’ says Nick, looking thoughtful.

The room goes silent.

‘Oh, come on!’ I break after thirty seconds. ‘I’ve not exactly spent the last twenty years sitting on my backside. I have tons of expertise.’

The faces in front of me are now demonstrating their best thinking poses. Nick’s eyes are looking up and to the left as he tries to retrieve memories of my brilliance. Scarlet is biting her finger and staring at me while Dylan is scratching his head and scrunching up his mouth. Only Benji looks confident and that’s because he is making the most of their distraction to load his plate with more food.

None of which is particularly reassuring or complimentary.

Eventually, after an interminable hush, Dylan speaks.

‘You could always be a party planner?’ It’s more of a question than a statement.

‘What does a party planner do?’ asks Benji, looking up from his plate.

Scarlet rolls her eyes. ‘They clean toilets,’ she tells him.

‘Seriously?’ Benji looks puzzled. ‘So why are they called—’

‘Oh my god! Why are you so retarded?’ groans Scarlet, slapping the palm of her hand against her forehead.

‘Don’t call your brother retarded,’ growls Nick.

‘The clue is in the name,’ Dylan tells Benji. ‘They plan parties, genius.’

‘Don’t call your brother a genius,’ I snap, not really thinking about what I’m saying. ‘And becoming a party planner isn’t really the direction that I’m thinking of going in.’

‘You are good at organising things,’ says Nick. I stare at him suspiciously to see if this is a roundabout way of saying that I’m bossy, but his smile seems genuine enough so I let it go.

Maybe I should consider it, as it’s the first vaguely sensible suggestion that I’ve been given. I let the possibility percolate round my brain, imagining myself floating around a fancy venue, ensuring that the champagne fountain and the table decorations are all in place. I could do that, no problem. But I bet the party planner doesn’t actually ever get to enjoy the festivities. I’ll probably be in the back, sleeves rolled up and doing the washing up or sorting the blocked toilets or dealing with rowdy partygoers who don’t know when they’ve had enough of a good thing. So basically doing what I have to do at home.

‘How illegal is it to punch someone in self-defence?’ asks Scarlet casually, whipping my thoughts away from my doomed party planner career. ‘Is it okay if they start it?’

I put down my cutlery and give my daughter a concerned look. ‘Why do you want to know? Has something happened?’

Scarlet shrugs. ‘Just wondering,’ she mumbles around a mouthful of potato.

And then Benji knocks over the gravy jug and in the ensuing carnage, I push any ridiculous thoughts of party planning or new careers to the recesses of my mind.

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