By 9.45 p.m. one of us had indeed passed out . . . it was Oliver, while reading Molly a story in her bed. I SHAVED FOR NOTHING.
Today he hasn’t even mentioned it, busying himself with a work project while Molly and I had aDespicable Memovie marathon. I just don’t get it. I remember the days when his penis made 99% of his decisions, including waking him up specifically to bang me. I miss those days. Maybe my New Year’s resolution should be to go back in time. I’m as likely to fulfil that as I am to lose weight.
Tuesday January 3rd
God, today was boring. The weather was still cold and miserable so we all sat inside and annoyed each other to the point of murder. However, as we’re all back to normality next week (thank God), I suggested we get out of the house and go for a family dinner somewhere. To be honest, I just wanted a cocktail. A big one. I’m not proud. After telling Molly seventeen thousand times that McDonald’s wasn’t an option, we finally decided on TGI Fridays in the shopping mall where she could get a burger, Oliver could get a parking space and I could get something made with Jack Daniels. It didn’t have to be solid food.
The restaurant was full of weary-looking families who had had just about enough of the holidays. We had to wait a few minutes for a table, so we sat at the bar, giving me a chance to responsibly choose something from the cocktail menu and not just grab the barman by the lapels and yell ‘JUST. NUMB. ME’ into his face. We sat near the back of the restaurant, Molly beside her Dad and me beside the Lynchburg Lemonade I’d ordered.
‘Mum, how come we had to come here and not McDonalds?’ Molly asked, her swinging legs thumping the table as she opened her kid’s activity pack.
‘Because McDonalds doesn’t sell this kind of lemonade,’ Oliver replied on my behalf. He lifted my glass and took a swig. ‘Damn, that’s nice. I wish you’d driven now.’
I smirked. ‘The burgers are bigger here anyway, honey. And we can share those chicken strips you like?’
‘OK.’ She shrugged and began colouring, just as another little girl three tables away started to lose her shit over ice cream. I took another gulp of my drink, feeling grateful that we’ve managed to raise such an easy-going child. No, not grateful . . .smug.
We got home around nine and Oliver put Molly to bed, while I opened a bottle of wine for us to share. It’s not often we do this. Usually one of us will stay completely sober in case we need to drive in a ‘Molly emergency’. My good friend Hazel says this kind of responsible behaviour is apparently very common for your first kid but after you’ve popped out a few more, you’re both drunk by 8 p.m., thinkingFuck it. We’ll call a taxi.
‘She went out like a light,’ Oliver remarked as he came into the living room. ‘I think she had fun.’
‘Come sit with me, handsome face,’ I said, already halfway through my glass of wine. ‘You know, this wine isn’t as vile as the cheap price-tag suggests.’
He slumped down beside me, putting his feet up on the coffee table. ‘I’ve eaten too much. I can’t move.’
‘Same. I’m down to one bar of health. You could rob me right now, I’d be unable to defend myself.’
‘I’m unlikely to rob someone who had to borrow twenty quid off me last week.’
‘Fair point.’
He laughed and gently nudged me. ‘You know, you could totally take advantage of me, right now. I’d be powerless.’ He started to run his finger over my thigh and towards my stomach. ‘I might even let you off with that twenty quid.’
‘You know that person you adore so much?’ I replied, gesturing towards Molly’s bedroom. ‘I pushed her out of my vagina. You should be throwing money at me on a daily basis. You should be makin’ it rain!’
He smirked at my attempt to palm imaginary money into the air. ‘It’s true. You did birth our lovely child. But to be fair, she was a lot smaller then . . .’
‘Yeah, so was my vagina . . .’
He snorted and took a swig of his wine. ‘Well, if we’re not going to ruin each other, I might put a film on?’
I nodded for him to go ahead but his words made my heart sink a little. When did we stop wanting to ruin each other? Why didn’t he defend my vagina? When did we let overeating interfere with sex? I’ve been overeating my entire life and it’s never stopped me shagging.
Thursday January 5th
Mum and Dad called from Canada this afternoon, placing me on speakerphone from what sounded like the middle of a dog shelter. Which, as it turns out, is EXACTLY where they were calling from.
‘Why are you getting a dog?’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re always pissing off on holiday!’
‘Oh relax, we’re not getting a dog. We’re just visiting them. I thought Molly might like to say hello.’
Jesus Christ. Everything I said about Oliver’s parents – I take it back. Compared to mine, they are normal and reasonable. Louise and Brendan didn’t sell everything they owned and emigrate to Canada, giving their only child two weeks’ notice. They don’t go skinny-dipping in their sixties or attend rock concerts or call their granddaughter to speak to random dogs. They didn’t bring me a set of Kegel balls for Christmas. Still, they do come over every year for ten days and spoil the shit out of Molly. I think they’re pleased to see me too. I hope so, anyway.
I called for Molly to come to the phone and watched her say hello to some dogs three thousand miles away. I could picture my mum: her blonde hair tied up in a bun, jacket hood up, holding the phone towards the cages, while my dad, head to toe in winter gear, would be telling her to hurry up so he could go home and knit a flaxseed cake or something. I was grateful that Molly was in her ‘I hate dogs’ phase. If she’d been listening to cats, she’d have been begging for one the minute she hung up.
After a minute or two Molly said bye, handed me the phone and went back to the living room while I had a quick chat with my parents. They think I’m daft. Not once have they ever just casually popped by a shelter to visit stray dogs. They’re totally adopting one.
Monday January 9th
