If You Don’t Laugh You Might Cry

Anniki Sommerville - 14 Jul 15

I’m covered in sweat. My hair is askew like a wig that’s been thrust at my head from a distance. I’m thirsty. I want to drink this bottle of ginger beer that’s sitting on the tray. I want food. A wooden spoon with the number ‘17’ means that it may arrive in five minutes but it could be much longer. This café is slow.

My daughter is trying for the third time to crawl across the cafe on all fours. She can walk but this is more fun and ensures maximum contact with dirt and bacteria. There is a ‘Bill and Ben’ ride that she wants to visit. It only accepts pound coins and I haven’t got any. Her feet are covered in dust. Her hair is plastered to her face. It is very humid. Another toddler is following her. My friend sits facing me. We have spent two hours lifting, lowering, chasing and fighting these tiny people. We are both depleted. For a second our brains fuse together and we imagine sitting in deckchairs with cool glasses of wine in our hands. We see a tray of canapés and hear raucous laughter. We are Bloomsbury writers at the peak of our careers- entertaining everyone with our witty repartee. We are the Fitzgerald’s just about to set off for another day at the beach in our shiny, sports car. We’re the Kardashians waiting for a manicure and our next ‘SoulCycle’ session.

We snap back to reality. There is a waitress who has the self-same wonky-wig hair and she’s walking in circles shouting ‘17’ over and over. I wave my hand but am too tired to stand up. It’s in the lap of the Gods. My friend has more stamina and manages to stick both hands in the air and shouts. The food arrives. But the toddlers have disappeared into the stinking pit that is the dedicated soft play area. The door is wide open so any moment a psychopath could slip in. Why doesn’t someone shut the door so we can eat our lunch in peace? We are not Bloomsbury writers. Or the Kardashians. We are two Mums on a Monday lunchtime in a garden centre in West London.

‘Can you see them?’ I ask as my friend looks hungrily at my jacket potato.

‘They’re taking the toy rabbits off the shelf and hurling them all over the place.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘I’ll go over. Where’s my food? What time is it?’

She makes no effort to move. Neither do I.

‘They’ve gone back into the soft play.’

I eat two big mouthfuls of congealed potato and then head towards the soft-play. There is an appalling odour of young-cheese feet (not as bad as old-cheese feet) and poo. In one corner a kid is pummelling another kid. A woman quickly steps in to separate them. I can’t see our two. Then I spot them on the slide. My friend arrives and scoops up hers as he lands at her feet. I admire her physical dexterity.

‘My sandwich has arrived,’ she declares.

We get back to our table and I try to get my daughter settled in the chair next to me. She’s overexcited – like a gambler who’s just landed in Vegas. I try to wave a chicken goujon in her face but it’s too hot and long past naptime. She squirms out of my grasp and starts to run back towards the soft play. An elderly couple look at me with disdain. It might not even be disdain but I’m feeling sensitive. Is it wrong to want to eat my potato? Why doesn’t someone put the air-con on and save us all?

‘She’ll be fine. She’s found the yoyos. I’ll tell you if she disappears again.’

I nod. I really like my friend. She has given me the gift of a jacket potato. She is keeping an eye on my daughter. She is also clever because she’s managed to tie her child into a highchair rather than restrain them manually with sweaty palms. I have a lot to learn from this person.

We eat like two people who haven’t eaten a scrap since early morning (which is exactly what we are.) Her son happily eats a few pieces of sausage. I look at the goujons. I shouldn’t have ordered them. My daughter’s never eaten them before. Why would she start today?

‘She’s gone,’ my friend announces.

I take a glug of ginger beer and sprint across the café. This area is populated by old people taking advantage of the cheap cake and parents with small kids. It’s safe. But the garden implements (all potentially deadly) are not far. I will be the Mum who sacrificed all for a potato. When I catch her (running towards the wellington boots) she’s tired and hungry – no longer the happy gambler. Now she’s the gambler with no money and a broken marriage. It takes me many attempts to pick her up. Each time she slides to the floor rigid and red-faced. We are fighting and I will win. But with each attempt I say goodbye to another small muscle group in my back. I make lots of promises – some of them involving ‘Tic Tacs’ and eventually we make it back. But before I can get her in the chair my daughter runs off. My friend laughs.

I am being tested. Someone wants to see how resilient a parent I really am. But who would test me? Is it some giant ‘Mum-God’ who is throwing challenges my way? I don’t like this ‘Mum-God’ at all. I run across the café again. I feel angry. I hope nobody gets in my way. My daughter throws herself on the floor and bumps her head on the ‘Bill and Ben’ ride. She cries with gay abandon. I catch sight of my friend. She is still laughing. Her toddler hits her on the head with a carton of apple juice. The sausages land on the floor. I worry that perhaps we are losing our minds.

When I get back to the table I can feel that my daughter’s energy is on the wane. My friend’s son has escaped the harness and is standing up, waving his arms angrily like a mini dictator.

‘How was your sandwich?’ I say.

‘Eat your potato,’ she replies.

‘I missed the nap window,’ I say mournfully, ‘I don’t think she’ll sleep now.’

I try to proffer another chicken goujon but my daughter refuses and chews on an unopened packet of mayonnaise. She has a small, purple bruise on her forehead.

We don’t need to talk my friend and I. It is more comfortable to be quiet when surrounded by this chaos.

‘You have to accept that this is how it is sometimes,’ my friend says eventually.

I nod. I feel slightly hysterical like I’m about to meet Benedict Cumberbatch.

I look down and my daughter has fallen asleep. My friend sniffs the air.

‘Time to change someone’s nappy,’ she says.

In the car park we bump into another Mum. She tells us that it all kicked off in the soft-play and the boy who was pummelling the other kid wasn’t to blame.

‘My friend’s crying,’ she says, ‘Her son was the culprit. She’s really upset,’ she makes a shrugging gesture, ‘You know when you have one of those awful days.’

We walk towards the car.

‘At least we didn’t cry,’ I say as I lower my daughter into the car seat.

My friend nods. I think she’s going to start laughing again.

Anniki Sommerville

I'm Super Editor here at SelfishMother.com and love reading all your fantastic posts and mulling over all the complexities of modern parenting. We have a fantastic and supportive community of writers here and I've learnt just how transformative and therapeutic writing can me. If you've had a bad day then write about it. If you've had a good day- do the same! You'll feel better just airing your thoughts and realising that no one has a master plan. I'm Mum to a daughter who's 3 and my passions are writing, reading and doing yoga (I love saying that but to be honest I'm no yogi).

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