The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari Low

       Step Two

      There are two things in life that I know inside out: one is the local kiddies’ indoor play area and the other is my husband. He doesn’t like change. He doesn’t do spontaneity. He definitely doesn’t do plain fecking crazy. So I did have the wherewithal to recognise that if I ambushed him with the grand announcement that we were all off to Hollywood the very minute he walked in the door he’d be about as thrilled as J.Lo in anything polyester.

      So I waited until he’d dumped his briefcase at the door, hung up his jacket and kicked off his shoes before me and the kids did a conga past him singing, ‘We’re all off to LA, we’re all off to LA, da da da da da, HO, da da, da, da, da.’

      He laughed, that gorgeous face crinkling up into a grin that gave me goose bumps. Mac threw himself into his daddy’s arms. ‘Daddy, daddy, we’re going to Hollywood and, and…’ he was in a frenzy by this time, ‘Mickey Mouse is there, and, and Pluto and, and Spiderman and, and, and…’ He didn’t get a chance to finish. Wisely, Mark recognised that such an extreme level of excitement could mean only one thing: incontinence. He whisked Mac into the downstairs loo before he peed his pants.

      ‘Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can…’ sang wee Benny in something approaching the cartoon’s theme tune. What did that say about me as a mother? Could they rhyme off the birds in the skies? No. Could they spot a petunia at a hundred paces? No. Could they tell you the name of the Prime Minister? No. But they could win Junior Pop Idol by chanting the theme tunes to every cartoon that was ever made.

      We definitely had to get out more. Oh well, in LA we’d be far too busy surfing and going to Tom Hanks’s house for tea to spend any time in front of the box.

      ‘So, do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ said Mark when he emerged from the downstairs loo. He didn’t look too pleased and I guessed that it probably had something to do with the damp patch on the front of his Hugo Boss suit. Damn.

      ‘Sam called today–his agent has read Nipple Alert and feels sufficiently excited by it to request that I come over to LA while he promotes it to the world’s biggest movie studios. I’ve done a cost-versus-risk analysis and while it is, of course, a speculative journey, I feel that it has sufficient merit to warrant extracting funds from our account and making the trip. I’ve cleared it with our accountant who has confirmed that a large portion of the outlay will indeed be tax deductible. I recommend that we start scouring the internet immediately in order to minimise our outlay by booking the most economical flights available and use the air miles that we’ve accumulated over the years to further reduce costs. I would anticipate leaving in approximately three weeks, giving you plenty of time to clear your current caseload.’

      You just know I’m lying, don’t you? Was it the ‘cost-versus-risk analysis’ bit that gave it away?

      What I actually said, in a babbling rushed voice that was donated especially for the occasion by the Gods of Helium, was, ‘Sam called, we’re going to LA, they want my book, Mark, they want my book! Oh my God, I can’t breathe! Anyway, so we have to go to LA and we have to go this week, so I looked on the internet and all the flights are fully booked, so fuck it, I used my credit card and got us all on a flight on Friday, business class, British Airways. You get those lie-down seats and free pyjamas. And your own telly screen. And, oh my God, Mark, I’m so excited. I haven’t found us anywhere to live yet, but Sam says we can stay with him till we find somewhere. Can you believe it, Mark, can you believe it?’ At which point I spun round, reached behind me for his hands, slapped them on my arse, grabbed wee Benny and started another conga, singing, ‘We’re all going to LA, we’re all going to LA, da da da da da, HO, da da da da da…’

      I was halfway into the kitchen before I realised that Mark wasn’t behind me.

      I stopped, turned around and saw that he was still standing at the end of the hall, and the whole ‘crinkled-up cute grin’ thing he had going was definitely gone.

      ‘Pardon?’ he said.

      I knew I was clutching at straws, but for a few seconds I hoped that it wasn’t a pardon in the ‘for fuck’s sake, have you lost your mind’ sense and more one in the ‘sorry darling, in all the excitement I missed some of that last statement–free pyjamas, did you say?’.

      ‘What bit did you miss?’ I asked hopefully.

      ‘The bit where my wife lost the plot altogether and, if I understand correctly, booked flights we can’t afford, for a trip we can’t take, on the premise that some agent thinks that her book might, perhaps, maybe appeal to someone in the movies.’ Then his tone changed altogether. ‘Incidentally, congratulations on that part, honey, you deserve it.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled.

      ‘Carly, I’m sorry but I can’t take any time off right now. You might not have noticed, since the last time you asked me about my work was about three years ago…’

      Ouch. Bulls-eye in the dartboard of brutal honesty for Mr Barwick.

      ‘…but I actually have a lot on my plate just now and there’s no way that I can…’

      ‘We’re all going to LA, we’re all going to LA, da da da da da, HO, da da da da da, HO.’

      It was Mac, on the way through the hall, having divested himself of his wet undergarments and replaced them with a Batman suit.

      Benny spotted him. And, naturally, burst into song.

       ‘Da na na na Da na na na Da na na na Da na na na BATMAN!’

      Woah. My husband and I were in crisis talks, having one of the most important discussions we’d had in years and I couldn’t hear a word he was saying because I was stuck in the family home equivalent of Nickelodeon Channel hell.

      And said husband was looking at me like he was trying to decide whether to have me certified or shot.

      How to play this? I could shout, I could holler, I could blackmail. I was sure I had some dodgy photos of him somewhere. In the end, I decided to let one of my other personalities take over. If anyone could swing this, it was Saint Carly of the Blessed Martyrdom.

      ‘But Mark, we have to go. Come on, please. Mark, look at my life. I cook, I clean, I organise your life and I spend most of my day dealing with the aftermath of other people’s body fluids.’

      Mac and Benny had the decency to hang their heads at this point.

      ‘This could be great! This could be our big chance for financial reward, for a life of fame and stardom, for glitz and glamour…’

      I could see I wasn’t winning, so I pulled out my trump card.

      ‘…for a NANNY!’

      He still didn’t blink. God, he was good. Saint Carly gave it one last shot.

      ‘Come on, babe. In five years I’ve never asked you to do anything for me. Do this for me, please.’

      His face softened. I could taste victory. We were going! Now where was my passport, my travel adaptor and the list I got off the internet of all the stars’ Hollywood addresses?

      Or maybe not.

      ‘Carly, I’m sorry. I’m really pleased that they’re interested in your book, but we can’t go just now. Mac has school.