Disappearing: 1in4

I don't do a lot of campaigning on this blog. That's not to say that I don't feel strongly about a number of issues, just that I choose not to use More than just a Mother for political rants and social debates. I was contacted this week by someone seeking to raise awareness of domestic abuse, giving me the horrific information that one in four women will fall victim to domestic abuse in their lifetime. One in four. That's someone in your family, in your post-natal group, your staff room, your circle of friends. One in four. That's too many.

I happened to have written something a few days ago on the very same subject, which was really rather coincidental as I don't write very many short stories and when I do they are generally light-hearted, frothy, chick-litese offerings. So despite having never put any fiction on this blog it felt opportune to share my short story and raise awareness of domestic abuse at the same time. You can read more about the 1in4 campaign on their website.

Disappearing

I’ve found the best way is to make myself as small as I possibly can. So my knees are tucked into my chest and my arms are wrapped around my head like a bow around a gift. Curled up like that I can disappear. With my eyes screwed shut and each breath tasting only of my own warm fear, I can disappear into myself until it’s over.

I count the blows as they slam rhythmically into my back, the tops of my legs, my arms, my head. Five, six, seven, eight. I imagine I’m buried, deep in the ground, with the cool mud pressing against my aching limbs. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. I imagine the quiet; the silence surrounding me with each layer of earth heaped on top of me. The peace, the relief, the escape. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

The kicks don’t scare me. They used to, when they first came, when I didn’t know the routine. But now I just disappear until they finish, when I stay in my safe curled-up haven and wait. It’s the wait which scares me. This bit, right now; the weighty pause as he stands at my head, breath noisy and uneven. The pause could mean it’s over; that I’ll hear his heavy footsteps moving away, the static crackle of the television going on, the sigh of the chair as he sinks into it. But the pause could also mean this is just the beginning. That he’s bored with my inert, disappeared self. That he needs to see my face as he aims his next blow. That he’ll drag me upstanding and smash my head against the door, his left hand round my throat as he forces my eyes forward to watch as his fist drives into my stomach. The pause is when I start to pray.

I pray now, and I wonder how many more times I will have to say these prayers before God listens. I hear the clatter of keys snatched from the counter, the clunk of a phone taken from the table in the hall. I hear the self-satisfied grunt of a man who has accomplished some unpleasant but necessary task, and finally I hear the front door close and the crunch of tyres on gravel. I hear silence.

I move slowly, checking for broken bones before I rise. Standing at the hall mirror I lift my shirt, craning my neck to see tonight’s purple gashes on their green and yellow backdrop. I find a band in my pocket and pull my hair back into a ponytail, smoothing errant strands behind my ears. Despite his efforts to avoid it, a blow must have caught my face and my bloodied nose has run onto my clothes, a smear of scarlet staining my bruised lips. I walk upstairs to change my clothes.

Stretching into the wardrobe for a clean top, my fingers reach unbidden to the back of the cupboard, seeking out the grey sports bag stuffed beneath piles of unworn jumpers. It is half packed. I add an extra pair of jeans and pack my wash things, pyjamas, a towel. I’m moving faster now, despite the pain in my side, blood coursing through me like an electric charge. I kick off my heels and pull on trainers, find a warm top and zip up the bag so quickly I pinch the skin on my hand. Tonight. Tonight I’ll do it.

I can almost taste the feeling of safety, of security, of release. I laugh out loud, heady with the thought of waking up in the morning free from fear. I scorn my embryonic self, curled up on the carpet like a dog waiting for its next beating – why should I wait for more? Tonight I’ll do it. Tonight I’ll leave.

A sudden noise stops me in my tracks, my hands unwilling to release their grip on the bag, as though inside it is freedom itself. I hold my breath and stand frozen in the doorway as the footsteps come closer and finally reach me.

“Mummy, I had a bad dream.”

I sink to my knees and pull her into me, her warm body curling into a ball on my lap as she rubs her eyes, blinking in the light. I hush her, soothe her and return her to bed, smoothing the covers and kissing her damp forehead.

“I’m here, darling, Mummy’s here.”

Back in my bedroom I take out my jeans from the sports bag. I take out the wash bag and return my tooth brush to the china mug, where it stands to attention next to its twin. I carefully push the bag to the back of the wardrobe, covering it once again with its cache of winter wear.

Not yet. I can’t leave yet. 

The nanny is leaving

The nanny is leaving. I've known this for weeks - after all, I was the one who gave her notice. I was the one who made the decision to work from home, to manage childcare and the school run around work, and to let our very own super-nanny know that there wouldn't be a job for her any more.

My guilt was somewhat alleviated by the news that the nanny had found a new position and would be starting almost right away, but it was instantly replaced by something just as uncomfortable.  The more I heard about her new employers, with their live-in housekeeper, their heated swimming pool and the four-wheel-drive accompanying the job, the more jealous I became.

Oh I know I was the one to finish it, but however well relationships end you still secretly want the other party to wish they were still with you, don't you? However relieved you are to tell that doe-eyed student boyfriend of yours that it's over, you still want him to spend the rest of his life wondering what life would have been like if you'd stayed together. You want to be the best he ever had.

I feel like the sallow school girl who enjoys an innocent but happy romance with the boy next door, only to be tossed aside in favour of Suzie Harris from the Upper Sixth, who has a proper bosom and the keys to a Fiat Panda. Far from hankering after the simple pleasures of his former relationship, Colin jumps head first into all that his new romance has to offer (including the proper bosom) and now mildly embarrassed about the lanky girl he used to date. Colin has moved on. Now I must too.

I wish my nanny well in her new position, and hope that the heated swimming pool, enhanced salary and doubtless beautifully behaved children live up to her expectations. It does sound rather wonderful. I only wish I'd seen the advert first - I think I might have applied.

No longer the Uber Mother

For several years I have graciously worn the title of Uber Mother, afforded to me largely because of the fifteen month accidental age gap between my three progeny. This is a happy by-product of fertility; friends and family consider you to be a paragon of motherhood purely by virtue of the number of children you have, especially when combined with an unfeasibly close age gap. If only I'd been able to squeeze in another couple of babies into the first three years I'd have been in line for martyrdom.

Over the years I've been generous with my parenting knowledge, imparting nuggets of advice to those in need and serving slices of wisdom with a nice strong cup of tea. After all, I was the Uber Mother.  As my children trooped happily up the stairs for bedtime, or waited patiently for an extra helping of organic broccoli, I smiled smugly to myself and secretly pitied my poor compatriots who were run ragged by their errant offspring.

I know what you're thinking, and you'll be relieved to know that it was only a matter of time before I got my comeuppance.  The children are revolting. Barely three weeks before I bid the nanny farewell and take over as full time mother and work-at-home freelance, my infant terrorists are running rings around me, stopping only to laugh in my face. Like the opening scenes from Nanny McPhee, when left in my sole charge the children swarm up curtains, into fridges and out of my grasp.

When in public the children continue to behave impeccably. They are a delight for their grandparents, a breeze for the nanny and a pleasure for play date parents. When their father returns home he is greeted by three impossibly meek smiles, their dimples belying the devilish behaviour unleashed upon me, his now-smelling-slightly-of-gin wife. No matter how hard I tried to explain that Satan appeared to have released his spawn into my charge, my husband refused to believe it.  After all, they weren't like that with him.

Last night, I filmed bedtime. A desperate measure, but one designed to show my husband just what goes on at home in his absence, and - perhaps - an opportunity to identify where I was going wrong. The children were true to form. At the mere mention of 'pyjamas' E disappeared under her bed, G slipped from my fingers like wet soap and J began walloping me with pillows. Like sharks smelling blood, his sisters emerged from their hiding places as I cowered from the attack, sitting on my back and my head respectively. Unable to move, J took the opportunity to forgo his pillows in favour of a large plastic sword, which he attempted to insert into my bottom. Several times. With vigour.

Later that evening, glass of wine in hand, I presented the footage to my husband, caring not a jot that my credibility as a mother was now in tatters (as was my bottom). I asked if the children had ever behaved in that way with him. When he had finished laughing, he replied that no, they had never displayed such tendencies for disorder. He suggested I try being a little firmer with them. And perhaps wearing some sort of protective undergarments.

And so it is with great sorrow that I relinquish my Uber Mother title. Would anyone care to step forward and claim it?

Working from home makes you fat

I've never worked from home before. At least, not on a long-term basis. I've had those days where I've solemnly informed my boss "I'll be working from home today", but he and I both knew that meant the nanny had called in sick and I'd be spending the day looking after three children and checking my Blackberry at half-hourly intervals.

But now I'm officially working from home. I have a desk and everything. I even went to WHSmith and stocked up on Post-it notes, pens and a new stapler, smugly filing away the receipt to satisfy my accountant. It's like starting a new school term only without the uniform.

Actually that's not entirely true - I do have a uniform of sorts. It consists of the scraggiest tracksuit bottoms imaginable, teamed with a random selection of t-shirts and a pair of slippers. This attractive ensemble is topped off with terrifyingly wild hair, as I tend to start work before taking a break to have a shower. When my mother-in-law popped in recently I could tell she was unconvinced by my claims to have been working hard, when appearances suggested I had in fact been lounging on the sofa watching Jeremy Kyle.  I hadn't, of course I hadn't (it was Loose Women).

I've read a few articles offering advice for those starting to work from home. I know that discipline is the key, that and not answering the phone or accepting invitations to lunches which go on all day. But nothing warned me of the most immediate truth about my new status; working from home makes you fat.

Today, for example, I began work at seven o'clock (in the afore-mentioned attire. It is now one in the afternoon and I have yet to get dressed - my mother-in-law may have a point) after a light breakfast. I filed a feature I'd finished over the weekend, tackled some emails then found myself sauntering back to the kitchen. After all, everyone knows that those in sedentary jobs should take regular leg stretches. I had a nice piece of cheese and that gave me an appetite for a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch hiding on top of the fridge (yet another advantage of my new working routine - no office meetings means no concern about bad breath. I could eat raw garlic and there's no-one to mind but the cat.)  I dashed off a couple of quick articles, pitched some feature ideas, then realised I'd been sitting at the computer for longer than the recommended forty minutes. Health and safety edicts tell me to take regular screen breaks, so I sashayed back into the kitchen and found myself checking the fridge to see if anything new had appeared in it. It hadn't, so I scoffed another piece of cheese and followed it up with a couple of hobnobs. It's lunch time now, although I have to confess I'm not terribly hungry.

It's month four of my freelance life and much as I like working from home, I fear for my waistline if I continue to punctuate my paragraphs with lumps of cheese and packets of crisps. My husband has also indicated I should fear for my marriage if I continue to dress like a tramp and forgo my shower in the pursuit of artistic glory.

So I'll end this blog post here and head upstairs for a shower. I might just have a slice of toast first...