Rebecca Smith - More Than Just Mum

Taylor Swift is admonishing me as I stumble into the room, my arms laden with yet another load of laundry. She informs me, in her dulcet tones, that she knew I was trouble when I walked in, which I think is fairly rude when all I’m doing is attempting to navigate from the kitchen door to the washing machine while avoiding the obstacles that my youngest child, Benji, and Dogger, the dog, have kindly put in place. Clearly they both felt that I needed the extra challenge.

‘Scarlet, can you please turn your phone off and set the table?’ I step nimbly over a skateboard. ‘Benji! Clear your stuff away now .’

Taylor segues into her next song like the professional that she is, asking me why I had to rain on her parade.

It is my lot as a mother, Taylor , I tell her silently. It’s just what I do. So if you’ve organised some kind of parade, or perhaps a party, then you can be fairly sure that I’m not going to like it. Especially if there will be boys or alcohol involved. And judging from your song lyrics, Ms Swift, I believe that there is a high possibility of that.

‘Hello, people!’ Dylan bounds into the room, throwing his arms out like Hugh Jackman in The Greatest Showman . ‘I am here!’

‘Congratulations for you,’ snarls Scarlet, finally turning off the music. ‘I’ve been here for the last sixteen years but I don’t make a song and dance about it.’

She does, though. In the last six months especially, Scarlet has started behaving as if her life is some kind of dramatic theatre production. And clearly, this particular production requires a lot of tortured expressions, self-introspection and extended monologues.

Dylan strolls across to his sister and flings his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re just not as special as I am,’ he says, pulling a sad face. ‘But don’t worry, little sis. I’m here for you.’

Scarlet gives him an almighty shove in the chest and he staggers backwards, narrowly avoiding Benji, who is attempting to remove his skateboard (as per my instructions) by putting Dogger on top and pushing her along.

I ram the washing into the machine and straighten up, sniffing the air. It smells suspiciously like burnt sausages.

‘Has anyone checked the oven?’ I politely enquire. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that I asked you all to keep an eye on the cooking while I sorted out the laundry.’

‘I’ve been revising for my Maths exam!’ Scarlet’s voice is laden with persecution. Nobody does aggrieved like my daughter.

‘I was in the bathroom.’ Dylan sits down and starts prodding at his phone.

‘Again?’ asks Benji, voicing what we’re all thinking. ‘You were in there for hours when we got home from school. Have you got diarrhoea or something?’

‘Why are you so gross?’ Scarlet glowers at him. ‘Nobody actually says stuff like that.’

Benji glances across the room at me, his face a picture of confusion.

‘I was only asking,’ he says. ‘Because we’ve been learning about germs in Science and I was just going to say that Dylan should probably wash his hands a bit better after he’s been to the toilet. Then he won’t keep needing to go .’

‘The supper?’ I ask, but nobody hears me. Dylan is exclaiming his disbelief that Benji could be so hypocritical as to talk to him about personal hygiene when we all know that Benji runs the tap and pretends to put his hands underneath but for some ungodly reason refuses to actually get them wet, and Scarlet is furiously slamming knives and forks onto the table and muttering loudly that she is the only person in this family to actually do anything helpful ever, while Benji is repeating the word ‘diarrhoea’ over and over again like some kind of hideous mantra.

So it is left to me to rescue the sausages and chips and heat up a tin of baked beans before screaming at them all to shut up and sit down.

‘I’ve cooked you a delicious meal and the least you can do is have enough respect to eat it nicely ,’ I roar, slamming the charred contents of the oven onto three plates. ‘I’ve been at work all day listening to Year Nine mutilate the English language, which is enough to send the sanest teacher over the edge, and I’ve got lessons to plan and your dirty pants aren’t going to clean themselves and Dad won’t be home until late and we’ve run out of wine.’

They all pause for a moment and I see Dylan eyeing me warily.

‘It looks great, Mum,’ he says.

‘Yeah, thanks for cooking for us,’ says Scarlet. ‘We’ll do the washing up.’

‘Thank you for everything ,’ adds Benji, passionately. ‘Like, thanks for making our food and doing the shopping and washing our clothes and making our packed lunches, and also thank you for giving birth to us and driving us to places and just for being our mum.’

He pauses for breath and gives me a big, ten-year-old beam.

‘You are such a suck-up,’ mutters Scarlet. ‘And I think you’ll find that it’s me who makes the packed lunches, actually .’

‘You’re all very helpful,’ I say, sinking down into a chair. ‘It’s why people have children in the first place, you know? For an easy life and for all the extra help that they get.’

Dylan laughs and starts squirting tomato ketchup copiously over his plate. I would normally make a cutting remark about the ratio of sauce to food but today I keep quiet. The sausages and chips have been cremated almost to the point of ash and I think a little extra moisture is acceptable in this case.

For a few moments, the only sound is that of knives attempting to ineffectually carve their way through several layers of pyrolysed pork. I lean back and start to relax. Nick was going out with a couple of mates after work but hopefully he won’t be home too late. We’ll eat pasta in front of whatever American crime series we’re currently working our way through on Netflix and it’s Wednesday, which means no school for me tomorrow. If I use my imagination and powers of delusion, I can almost make myself believe that it’s the weekend.

‘I started following Zoe on Instagram today,’ says Scarlet, giving up on her knife and picking up the sausage with her fingers. Her voice is casual but the look she shoots at Dylan is distinctly shifty.

‘Why did you do that?’ Dylan rounds on her, his face screwed up in displeasure. ‘You don’t even know her!’

‘So?’ Scarlet shrugs, her grin stretching from ear to ear. ‘That’s what social media is for , Dylan. Getting to know new people.’

‘But you know that I—’ he stops and gestures wildly at Scarlet, before slamming his hands over his face.

‘I know that you what ?’ purrs Scarlet. This is her favourite game. ‘I know that you fancy Zoe? Is that what you were going to say?’

Dylan groans. A good mother would probably stop this but there’s no chance of me doing that. This is the first thing I’ve heard about any Zoe character, and if Dylan is interested in her then I want to know everything that there is to know. And fortunately for me, Scarlet is an excellent source of information.

‘Dylan’s got a girlfriend!’ crows Benji, his eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Are you going to get married ? You’re allowed, you know. You can do that when you’re eighteen. And you can also vote and get a tattoo and be sued.’

‘I do not have a girlfriend!’ snaps Dylan. ‘So shut up!’

‘You are not allowed to get a tattoo,’ I say, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I’m wondering why I’ve never thought about having one.

Maybe something tasteful, like a small butterfly or a daisy? Maybe something that would prove I’m not old and past it. Or perhaps I could get my eyebrows shaved off and perfectly arched brows tattooed in their place? That could be worth looking into. I think I could achieve a lot more in life if I had eyebrows that were on fleek , as Scarlet would say. It sounds quite French. I wonder if it’s actually spelt en flique ? I must remember to ask her.