Authors: Lana Citron
Picking out a week’s worth of groceries and, ‘No, Max, let go of the yoghurt now, please.’
Managed to bypass the aisle containing sweets, biscuits and crisps – otherwise known as life in the fat lane – which is more difficult than it sounds, then pulled over at the toilet
rolls. I scanned the shelves and dithered indecisively. Couldn’t settle on two-ply or three. The latter though more expensive offered two free rolls in a pack of twelve.
My mind was Finn-flooded, rewinding old footage. Ah go on, treat yourself to three-ply, cut down on the chafing. In the background I heard a child whingeing, and by the time I’d reached
the meat counter, the little blighter was in a right old fluster. My heart went out to the mother: it happens to the best of us. Cranky kid and one minor blip can set them off. Something as simple
as retracting a yoghurt from their mauling paws, ’cause you know they’re just going to squeeze it till it bursts open and makes an unholy mess.
By the time we reached the dairy section the kid was screeching wildly, the whole of the supermarket alerted. The child wouldn’t let up, and of course it was my kid. I refused to give in,
though the Finn fantasies had to go on hold. Max was off on one and I did so want to bark at him, to temporarily lose it.
‘What is up with you?’
‘I want a yoghurt.’
‘You can have one at home.’
His legs kicked out at me and my eyes narrowed to slits. Teeth clenched, I felt like pushing that damn trolley through the glass walls. Max has a fine pair of lungs, and people had started
giving him those ‘I feel so sorry for you’ looks.
And then one of the bakery assistants arrived over with a gingerbread man to placate the child, my child, and hey presto –
Max fell silent.
Within an instant, he transformed back to sweetness and light. How I wish my emotions could work so fast, so well, that I could go from white rage to placid blue in nanoseconds flat. It’s
wearying, draining. You can’t lose it, not totally, and fuck it: where was my gingerbread man? I wanted something sweet and calming – bottle of Rioja would have to do.
We joined the slowest-moving queue in the world. Wound up, I bit my nails in frustration then despair when Max decided he wanted more. Really wasn’t sure I could survive another screaming
tantrum without joining in. Damn that interfering assistant. Bribery is lazy parenting, treats should be exactly what the word is, a treat. Now Max would expect a gingerbread man on every shopping
trip; he was already beginning to holler again. The upshot being, I lost my place in the queue and went to get him another.
Max never has tantrums. I swear it was unusual behaviour. That said, parents have a habit of lying, especially regarding sleeping patterns. How many times have I heard, ‘Oh little Damian
sleeps through and has done since the day he was born.’ Yeah right, so how come you look so haggard and aged, not to mention that twitch in your left eye.
It wasn’t until we’d got back to the apartment that I discovered the reason for his outburst. Bath times can be so revealing and there it was . . .
All stations on high alert. One pox spied on belly, left of button. Half an hour later, two more appeared. Crankyface came over all cuddlesome and ‘I want my
mummy’. I obliged, felt guilty for having been so short with him. Had not the nursery posted a sign up of late, informing parents there was a case of the chicken pox! How could I have been so
stupid, so very . . . human. That was it then: I knew for the next week Max and I would be incommunicado.
In Horrorville. Max was not a pretty sight. A quick visit to the GP confirmed my suspicions. We were advised to lie low.
‘Keep him in for a week or so and stay clear of pregnant women.’
Too late, the waiting room had been full of them. All first-timers, and they’d been cooing at Max, having that first-timer’s romanticised view of children. There are occasions when
the sight of a pregnant woman fills me with dread and I want to cry out, ‘Wipe that inane smile off your face. Have you any idea what is entailed?’
Let’s face it, parenting is a minefield.
1. Are you a patient, giving, loving, nurturing, selfless person who is unaffected by loss of sleep and always in control of your emotions?
If you have answered yes, you are obviously totally delusional and will be a crap parent.
2. Are you neurotic, wired, selfish, emotionally needy and prone to thoughts of is this really my life?
If you have answered yes, you already are a parent.
3. Are you basically a good human being, emotionally balanced, financially balanced and willing to sacrifice yourself for another?
Yes?
Really?
OK, so then the chances are you may well be a good parent. You’ll do your best, you’ll do your duty, by God and by country, and for what?
For your darling progeny to reject you anyway.
Ha!
As decreed by the laws of teenagity, it is understood that upon reaching double digits, perhaps even earlier, your child will begin to reject you, and it is highly likely you will be taunted
with such standard lines as: ‘I hate you,’ ‘I didn’t ask to be born,’ etc.
I called the office.
Trisha, obviously stressed, spat down the phone, ‘Well, that’s just bloody typical of you, Issy. Your timing is impeccable. Last night the phones were hopping, we’re
short-staffed as it is, Fiona has just been given the date of her operation, and now you’ve let us down.’
‘Trisha, it’s not my fault.’ Hey, and spot the scapegoat. I did my utmost to appease her. ‘Look, I can still work if Maria can sit.’
Damn, but I badly needed to bolster my numbers or I’d be the monthly loser three times in a row.
She didn’t sound convinced, and said she’d call back.
The nursery informed me of their scab policy. Max would not be let in again until each and every scab had healed, which meant two weeks as opposed to one.
‘Ms Brodsky, I understand your situation but it’s too risky. Basically if the scab falls off in nursery, the other children could pick it up and . . . eat it.’
Realistically, I was looking at ten days of full-time motherhood with no respite. Thankfully I’d a fully stocked fridge, but what about entertainment? Solved easily enough – a quick
jaunt down to the local video shop with a well-wrapped-up Max.
Trisha called back, having spoken to Maria, whose pregnant daughter just happened to be over for the week. There was no way she’d sit for me. Stressed to the nth, Trisha barked down the
phone at me, while Max hollered. Piggy in the middle, I was getting a tirade of abuse in each ear, Trisha down one and Max down the other.
‘Trisha I’m going to have to go.’
‘Mummeeeee, Mummeeee,’ in that high-pitched whine that hurts the eardrum.
‘Oh and another thing – some old dear called, a Mrs Finkletin.’
‘You mean Finklestein.’
‘Said she wants you to ring her – something about her husband.’
‘Mummeee, Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeee.’
‘In a minute, Max. What’s the number?’
‘Mummeeeeeeee.’
‘Trisha, just text me the number, Max is going ape.’
Poor fella, uncomfortable in his own skin. My own head about to explode, my brain near spasming. I was going to lose it for sure and then time stood still, seconds turned to hours, minutes to
days, hours to weeks. Everything seemed to fuse and I couldn’t remember much after that.
Interminable boredom averted by a rat-a-tat-tat. I opened the door ever so slightly and peeked out at my visitor. ’Twas only the Detective Bambuss.
‘Hello, my dear, is this a good time to have a look in the garden?’
‘As long as you’re not pregnant.’
‘Do I look pregnant?’
Well, the hard rotund belly perched above and overflowing his trouser belt did, it must be said, resemble that of a nine-monther.
‘Max has the chicken pox.’
I slide the chain from across the door.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve had it. Miss Brodsky, let me introduce Stephan Bloch.’
And there I was dressed only in me T-shirt and socks. Lord above, but the state of me, and of the place, and of the child running naked, clothed only in lashings of calamine.
‘Who is it, Mum? Who are you?’ Max demanded of the well-shod, terribly handsome gent, say mid to late forties and not wearing a wedding ring.
‘Hey, little man, what’s up? Hear you got chicken pox,’ said in that irresistible, gentle American accent and he phenomenally child-friendly to boot.
I opened the door wider, till the hinges creaked.
‘No problem, come in, come in. Sorry about the state of the place, and oh –’
‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a social visit.’
It was to me, mate.
The detective strode into the hall and Stephan after him.
I, overcome by social embarrassment, tugged at the ends of my T-shirt and showed the pair of them down to the kitchen and through the back door to the garden.
‘Sorry to hear about your mother,’ I blurted. ‘Very unusual circumstances.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, Detective. Best get dressed.’
It was afternoon. Christ, what must they have thought, slobbo mum with wild child, but they were immersed in more important business. I dragged Max into my room and dressed us both in record
time. A mere fifteen minutes later, the door to my bedroom opened and out we trotted.
The detective and swoonable male were, unfortunately, on their way out.
‘Thanks for that, Miss Brodsky.’
Quick, think – stalling tactics.
‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘No but thank you, my dear.’
Bambuss glanced down at his watch.
I managed to get to the door before them, blocking them with conversation.
‘So how’s the investigation going?’
‘Fine, fine. We are making headway.’
‘Anyone I know?’
The detective gave me a quizzical stare.
‘Confidential information.’
‘I won’t tell anyone. You can trust me.’
‘No formal arrest made as of yet, but we have our suspects.’
The detective stretched out his arms, fingers entwined, and cracked his knuckles. He gave off a strong smell of garlic and stale alcohol. I took a step back.
‘Ah go on, give us a clue.’
‘My dear . . . you’ll be the first to know.’
Hoped he wasn’t insinuating it was me.
‘And Mr Bloch, are you staying in your mother’s apartment?’
‘For a while. Gotta wrap up her estate.’
Hmm . . . so he’d be around for a bit.
‘I see, yes, well . . . please call by any time.’
Flutter, flutter went my lashes.
‘Can you open the door?’
‘Oh silly me.’
Cringe, cringe went my conscience.
Max had taken all his clothes off again and sped by on his scooter.
‘Cute kid,’ said the delectable Stephan.
‘Thanks,’ I simpered.
The detective coughed and then muttered, ‘Doesn’t look anything like you.’
‘Yes . . . well . . . Detective, if I can be of any further assistance, you know where I am. Oh and Mr Bloch, I’m really, really sorry I lost your mother’s finger. Can’t
believe I was such a klutz.’
I donned my ‘I’m so silly’ expression.
‘Yeah, I thought that was weird.’
Had to end the conversation on an up note, and the following flew out of my lips, ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up. Fingers crossed . . .’
Jesus, I can’t believe I actually said that.
For the rest of the day, I fixated on Stephan. See, some good had come of finding the finger – it had led to us meeting one another. For the first time in an age, I had glimpsed a man I
actually found incredibly attractive. He was so very handsome, so very tempting, so very available. So to cut a long story short, I put him to good use when I went a bush wandering later that
night.
On the things one can do with a bog-roll tube, a piece of card, some crayons, Sellotape, glue and scissors, if, and here’s the proviso, one is artistic. Unfortunately the
rocket ship failed to orbit, the paper boat sank, the Fat Controller remained a bog roll and hard-boiled egghead. Max and I stretched our imaginations to cracking point. The kitchen table
transformed into a plane, with two chairs in front as the cockpit. A large cardboard box became a boat, the sofa cushions were pieces of bread, we took turns lying down between them and making
human sandwiches. Scattered cushions throughout the flat were used as stepping stones, as we did our best to avoid the snappy crocodile. We also indulged in some monster-baiting, as the place was
metaphorically infested. I made special monster nets out of the frontroom ones. Besides, I needed new ones anyway.
Disappointed with his catch or lack of, Max asked, ‘Where are the real monsters, Mum?’
‘Everywhere, Max. They hide themselves in other people.’
‘No way.’
‘Yeah way.’
‘And what do they look like?’
‘Normal . . . you got be alert twenty-four seven. Swear to you, kid, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.’
Thus ended Max’s first lesson in paranoia.
Yes, I admit, it was a cruel thing to say but I was slowing losing it. Crawling the walls in Spiderman fashion. Then later on, that very night . . .
It was bound to happen. The men in white coats appeared, perhaps in answer to my celestial call. I, nose pressed to the net-less window, had been alerted by the sonorous
wailing of the ambulance pulled up right outside my gaff. I was half tempted to: a. run to my room and pack an overnight bag, b. shout out, ‘What took you so long?’ and c. get down on
my knees and give thanks for small mercies. The fact was I’d just drunk half a bottle of red. Instead I remained, transfixed, in a near panic-induced state of catatonia, watching the
amublance crew alight from the vehicle. Then I heard someone from upstairs run down and open the front door.