‘That’s nice. Are you allowed to have favourites?’
‘Probably not, but I can’t help it. She’s a darling. Calls gravity “grabbity”, which actually makes sense when you think about it.’
There’s already a group of mothers huddled at the doors as I arrive. I spot Rose hanging back from the pack, standing under a massive yellow umbrella, and head towards her for shelter.
‘Hi, Cat!’ She moves over and lets me under, being careful not to poke me in the face with the spokes. ‘I’m just standing here thinking how much I fucking hate everything.’
I love Rose. She’s very funny, swears like a trooper and although she loves her son to death, she despises everything about motherhood. I met her on the first day of nursery and we instantly clicked.
‘Everything?!’ I grin.
‘Yeah, pretty much. I especially hate this routine. Same fucking thing every day. And Jason’s being so difficult at the moment; threw a fit last night at dinner because the peas on his plate were too small. THEY’RE FUCKING PEAS. I didn’t sign up for this shit. And he refused to come to nursery yesterday without his Barbie doll; went ape-shit when the teacher wouldn’t let him bring it into class, in case it got lost.’
‘Aww, they all have a thing at this age,’ I attempt to console her, desperately trying to think of something weird that Grace does, but my mind’s a blank. So I tell her the ‘grabbity’ story and hope for the best.
‘Ugh, your child is normal.’ Rose smirks. ‘Go and stand over there with the perfect parents.’
I laugh and look over at the three flawlessly groomed women waiting impatiently at the main entrance. Janice, Patricia and Anne-Marie are the kind of mothers Rose dislikes with a passion, and I can see why. They’re mean, they’re pushy and, astonishingly, they’re actually far more judgemental than Rose and I combined.
At last count they had at least twelve kids between them. They also have two Range Rovers, three sense-of-humour bypasses, a pug called Barnaby, at least one Weight Watchers Silver Star award and numerous ways of bragging how exceptional their completely average children are. Like on sports day. The leader of the little group, Anne-Marie’s son Ben, came third behind two girls in the egg-and-spoon race. Ben screamed. Then he threw a fit and his hard-boiled egg at his teacher. Anne-Marie wasn’t happy either.
‘That’s outrageous! Ben’s an excellent athlete – that race was entirely unfair. Ben’s egg was clearly bigger than everyone else’s. I’m not even sure it was a hen’s egg.’
The nursery bell rings loudly, almost drowning out the sound of my phone. I scarper to the back of the queue to answer while they begin letting parents in. It’s the Scottish Tribune. My heart leaps into my mouth as I answer.
‘It’s Natasha here. We’d like to formally offer you the job.’
Three minutes later, everyone else is inside but I’m still outside in the playground – punching the air like it’s 1985.
*
I finish my coffee just as Grace rushes through the door, back from her errand with Adam and swigging from a tiny bottle of fresh orange. The house instantly becomes alive when she’s here.
‘Hello, my darling! Did you get your pancakes this morning?’
‘Yup. Aunt Helen tried to make one that looked like Mickey Mouse, but I heard Uncle Adam say it looked like a willy, so she made me a normal round one instead.’
‘Oh . . . right then.’
She pauses for a moment, tiny hands on tiny hips. ‘Why don’t girls have willies? Why do we have a bagina? Is it so we can sit down to pee?’
‘It’s a vagina, and it’s a bit early to be discussing bottoms and peeing, Grace. Can we talk about it after I’m dressed?’
As I walk through to the bedroom and take off my dressing gown, I hear her shout, ‘Mum, Daddy sits down to pee sometimes. I saw him. He calls it a “sit-down-wee”.’
‘Tell him to close the door when he’s in the toilet,’ I reply, pulling on jeans that should have been thrown in the wash a week ago. ‘That’s a private thing.’
Her little face appears round my bedroom door. ‘But I’ve seen you pee a gazillion times. And he does close the door but I go in anyway.’
This is true. I haven’t been able to take a piss on my own since 2007. Or shower. These private moments seem to be when Grace invariably decides she wants to tell me something very important, or announce that she can’t find a toy or, y’know, just talk nonsense and show me some dance moves. Part of me is secretly pleased that Peter isn’t getting let off the hook either – that he might get a small insight into what it’s like to never get a minute to yourself.
‘OK, I’m getting dressed now. Why don’t you go and watch telly before we go to the farmers’ market? Grace, what are you laughing at?’
‘Your boobs are massive. Will I have the same ones when I’m older?’
‘Well, you’ll have your own boobs, but not these exact ones; they’re not heirlooms. Now go and play for ten minutes.’
Mercifully she doesn’t ask what an heirloom is and skips back into the living room. I hear the opening credits to Monster High blasting out as I search for a pair of socks in the massive ironing pile that’s slowly taking over the corner of my bedroom, cursing my inability to successfully cope with any kind of household chore. In my twenties, I truly believed that by the time I hit thirty I’d be wealthy enough to pay someone to clean my house while I was at work. Now I just look forward to the day I can teach Grace to vacuum.
