We had another row about it this morning. I filled out a parental online form about his prom night. Just stuff about allergies （he has none） and giving him permission to get the coach that’s taking the kids on to the after-party （I agreed）。 Nothing controversial. He said I had no right. I’m paying for the bloody party.
Mark just said it wasn’t the day to get into it. He always says that. We shouldn’t get into it on a school day because kids doing GCSEs are under enough pressure, we shouldn’t get into it during the weekends or holidays because it will bring the mood down. We shouldn’t get into it on a day ending in y. Although we are always into it. Oli seethes. Grunts. Sulks and is monosyllabic a lot of the time.
When they go out—look, this is an awful thing to admit—but sometimes, when the door slams shut behind them, and I know there are walls between us, the silence changes. There’s often a silence that’s claustrophobic and accusatory but I feel freer. Without anyone’s gaze on me, it is easier to think.
They are visiting Mark’s sister-in-law. Mark has stayed close to his first wife’s family, her sister in particular. Usually I also go along to see Paula and her family, when Mark and the boys go, but today there are a number of reasons why I thought it was best that I leave them to it. I pointed out I have some phone calls to make, there is a stack of washing up to be done and the kitchen floor needs mopping. Sunday lunch has been quite eventful. While we were eating, our cat, Topaz, jumped onto the counter and paddled in the discarded, greasy baking trays in the kitchen, leaving a trail of oily footprints everywhere. He’s a big, greedy cat and somehow he managed to pick up the chicken carcass and throw it onto the floor, where it slithered and slid, leaving a trail of smeared poultry fat. Finding the cat hunched over the chicken carcass, gnawing on the bits of remaining flesh, led to a mini crisis as Seb panicked that the cat was going to choke on a chicken bone. He didn’t, he just spat and clawed aggressively when I separated him from his prize. I’m not especially house proud. Before I was a mother and wife, I used to keep my flat neat enough but then one day I read a fridge magnet that said, A CLEAN HOUSE IS THE SIGN OF A WASTED LIFE, and I realized I agreed with it more than almost anything else I had ever read.
I can’t bear waste.
Especially wasted time.
However, even with my fairly relaxed standards, I couldn’t leave the kitchen swilling in bird fat; the boys would walk it through to the carpets, Seb—who is a bit clumsy—would no doubt slip on it. So, I said I’d stay behind and make everything shipshape.
Besides, I hate graveyards.
Today is the anniversary of Frances’s death. Eleven years to the day since they lost their real mother. Mark’s first wife. My predecessor. The forerunner. Mark is taking the boys to visit her grave. Frances’s sister, Paula, her husband and their three daughters are going too. Frances is buried just minutes from Paula’s house and Paula often visits the grave—keeps it tidy by weeding and supplying fresh flowers. Paula’s three girls visit the grave so frequently that they talk about it in the same way as they talk about visiting their nana or going to the play park. “Shall we go and see Aunty Frances?” they cheerfully ask on a regular basis. I think it’s because they like buying flowers at the florist—what little girl doesn’t? Paula’s kids weren’t even born when Frances died but Paula keeps her alive for them, and for my boys too. She is forever telling Oli and Seb stories about Frances. She’s in a unique position to do this and I think it’s important for them to feel comfortable talking about Frances. I don’t think she necessarily has to be the main topic of conversation every time they see their aunt; sometimes it might be nice if Paula talked to the boys without breaking off midsentence to exclaim, “You like chocolate fudge cake? Of course you do, your mother loved chocolate fudge cake” （well, who doesn’t?） or “You remind me so much of your mum when she was your age. The spitting image.” The boys actually look like their dad, but I suppose they might have mannerisms inherited from Frances that I’m unaware of. I am not disrespectful of Frances. I understand that by all accounts she was a wonderful woman. Kind, patient, funny, clever. No one has a bad word to say against her （which honestly, I find a little hard to swallow—none of us is perfect）。 I also understand some people get a great comfort from visiting graves; they like to show their respect and demonstrate gone but not forgotten. I think grave visiting is morbid. And in this case, a power play.
It’s just a fact that Paula and I are not close. We don’t argue but we don’t gel. Never have. We are polite with one another. I suppose her cool detachment toward me is understandable. Mark could get a new wife; she could never get a new sister. I realize if Frances hadn’t tragically died of cancer, I would never have become Mark’s wife, Oli and Seb’s mum, because they were not the sort of couple that would ever have split up. They were happy. Mark would never have noticed me.
But Frances did die.
It takes a lot of strength and determination not to think of myself as second choice. Second place. I am constantly reminding myself, I’m not Plan B, I’m just a different path. I do visit her grave with them on her birthday and even Christmas Eve, just before we dash off up the M1 to see Mark’s parents—although that drives me mad, because there are a ton of things that have to be done on Christmas Eve and all of them are time sensitive. I just think making a thing out of the death anniversary is a bit much.
I’d rather wash the kitchen floor.
I am going to do the housework first and then settle down to my telephone calls, catch up with friends and family. It will be my treat after the drudgery. I’ll make plans for the coming week, discuss bars and restaurants that are worth a visit, remind myself that there are more ways to validate my life than my success—or otherwise—in parenting Oli and Seb, being Mark’s wife.
Don’t get me wrong. We’re a very happy family. More often than not. Very happy. It’s just sometimes—and any mother will tell you this—sometimes being a mum seems a bit thankless, a bit hopeless. Well, if not hopeless, then certainly outside of your control. I think that’s the hardest lesson I have had to learn as a parent; no matter how much I try, I am not able to guarantee my sons’ happiness and success. There are constant outside forces at work that disrupt things. Forces that matter to them more than I do. Friendship groups, strict or nagging teachers, Insta likes and follows, whether or not they are picked for a team or invited to a party, whether they think they are tall enough, too fat, too thin, too spotty. Whether they are the best at something, at anything. It was easier when they were younger; a cuddle, a colorful Elastoplast or an ice lolly solved just about everything.
I like to listen to music when the house is empty. Two reasons. One, to fill the void that is normally owned by the noise of video games beeping, music blaring and the TV streaming, and secondly because when the boys are home, I rarely get to pick what music is played. Oli likes hip-hop and rap, Seb pretends to like these things because he lives in awe of his big brother and tries to ape his every move—adopting his style, claiming his tastes in music, food, TV shows—much to Oli’s annoyance. Because both the boys like hip-hop and rap, the angry lyrics and heavy, insistent beats tend to thud through our rooms whenever they are about; my preferences are not considered. No one would call me a muso. I stopped following bands when Oasis and Blur started to slip down the charts. Most of the music I like is blacklisted on Radio 1, but I do like dancing. I like a beat thrilling through my body. I guess I’m the musical equivalent to that person who says they know nothing about wine, except what they like to drink.