Allison Pearson - I Don't Know How She Does It

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7:01 A.M.Ben has discovered his penis. Lying on the changing mat, he wears the rapt, triumphant expression of a being who has just found the on-off switch for the solar system. Small fingers curled tight around the original joystick, he is absolutely outraged and sheds fat warm tears when I confiscate his favorite new toy by trapping it in a Midi-Pamper and hastily sealing the Velcro flaps on each side.

“No, there’s a good boy. We have to put it away now and go downstairs and have our Shreddies.”

What is the correct mother-of-the-world attitude toward an infant son’s sexuality? Delight that the penis works, of course. Amazement that I could, in my own female body, have grown this caterpillar-sized miracle of plumbing and pleasure. But also strange shyness at evidence of early masculinity with all that it implies — tractors, soccer, other women. One day Ben will have females in his life who are not me, and already a splinter of ice in the heart tells me how that will feel.

Downstairs, I pick my way across the debris on the kitchen floor. Over by the bin, there is a hill of raisins; surely can’t be the same raisins that were there before Christmas? Must tell Paula to stop kids dropping them. (No use asking cleaning lady: Juanita has problem with cartilage and cannot kneel down.) I find Richard bowed in worshipful attitude before the TV. Unshaven, my husband is at his shaggiest and most primitive, like Ted Hughes left in a tumble dryer. Suspect he has developed a crush on children’s TV presenter — Chloe? Zoe? — and when I ask how come he has the kids’ show switched on before either of ours is even awake, he murmurs “very educational” in a gruff not-now-woman manner. Don’t think he has forgiven me since the Great Pesto Row.

I can’t help noticing that Chloe-Zoe is dressed for a Geordie hen night rather than a fierce February morning. She wears an orange sleeveless vest with HOW ABOUT IT? picked out in pink sequins over small but inquisitive breasts. When did children’s presenters start looking like jailbait rather than, say, the estimable Valerie Singleton?

“Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Ben keeps fiddling with himself — I mean, he’s only just one. Seems a bit early. Do you think it’s normal?”

Rich doesn’t even look up. “Happiest form of entertainment known to man. A lifetime’s pleasure ahead of him. Plus it’s free,” he says, cocking his head on one side and returning Chloe-Zoe’s gruesome chipmunk grin.

A gurgle of pleasure across the room makes me turn round. Ben has moved over to the fridge and yanked open the door and stands there upending an economy bottle of Toothkind Ribena over my shoes. Black currant hemorrhaging all over the place. Dive into action, attempting to stanch the slick like the exotic yet authoritative Nurse Hathaway in ER . Call for more kitchen roll. There is no more kitchen roll and Ben is now sitting in a puddle of purple glucose. He squeals when I pick him up by the collar of his pajamas and hold him under the tap.

I ask Richard how he could have failed to get kitchen roll as per my underlined (three times) request on Friday’s shopping list. Rich explains he was unable to find the specified Kitten Soft in the supermarket and simply couldn’t bring himself to ask for it.

“I don’t understand.”

“There are certain words a grown man cannot be expected to say, Katie, and Kitten Soft are two of them.”

“You won’t say Kitten Soft Kitchen Roll?”

“Not out loud, no.”

“Why on earth not?”

“I don’t know. I just know I’d rather eat a soft kitten than ask for one. Even thinking those words…”

With a theatrical shudder, Richard turns to the TV and makes a silent appeal to the melting chocolate-button eyes of Chloe-Zoe.

“But we don’t have any kitchen roll, Rich, and, as you may have noticed, we have the Exxon Valdez going on here.”

“I know, but I wasn’t sure if Kitten Thingy was the only option or if Absorbent Luxury Three-Ply Cushion stuff would do instead.” He lets out a moose-sized groan. “No, it’s no good, Kate. Don’t make me.”

For future reference, I ask my husband to give me some other words grown men cannot be expected to say. In no particular order they are: Toilet Duck, glade-fresh, rich aroma, deep-dish, filet o’ fish, Cheezy Dipper, wash’n’go, Bodyform, Tubby Custard, panty liner.

8:01 A.M.Got to dash. Major presentation to EMF directors today. A make-or-break career opportunity. A chance to impress with cool authority, matchless knowledge of world markets, etc. Swipe Ribena glaze off my shoes, leave note for Paula asking her to buy kitchen roll and please return Snow White video to the library. The fine now exceeds production costs on the original Walt Disney movie. Grab my bag and air-kiss sticky Ben, who hurls himself at me like Daniel Day-Lewis bidding farewell to Madeleine Stowe in Last of the Mohicans .

“Mum, what’s a suffer jet?” Emily is blocking my path to the door.

“Don’t know, darling. Have a nice day. Bye now.”

3:26 P.M.Presentation is going brilliantly. The managing director, Sir Alasdair Cobbold, has just praised my grasp of the problems of European integration. Up here in the boardroom on the seventeenth floor, with London spread out like a Lego village beneath me, for one giddy moment I feel as though I am mistress of all I survey.

I am just moving into the closing sequence when there’s a cough at the door. I look across and see Celia Harmsworth hovering in that fluttery don’t-mind-me way people who pretend they’re unimportant have of making themselves the center of attention. “So sorry to interrupt, Robin,” she simpers, “but there’s a drunk in reception causing a few problems for security.”