More Than Just Mum. Rebecca Smith
market. Or maybe they haven’t moved on. Maybe it’s me. I do remember poring over magazines with sketch drawings showing the ‘Position of the Week’ and sniggering with my friends. But that seemed more innocent somehow, like it was a serving suggestion rather than an assumption that we were all getting it on at every available moment.
I ignore the second question and move onto the next, which rather intrusively wants to know how many sexual partners I’ve had. Interestingly, zero is not an option – I suppose that’s because the quiz writers assume that one needs to have actually had sex in order to identify whether one is, in fact, a sexual goddess. Answer A is a bit alarming though. I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have the energy to have that many different liaisons, and I feel a grudging respect for the sheer work ethic that must be required. I look down the list towards the more sedate numbers, while running my own experiences through my head.
It doesn’t take that long. I was a late developer, and a combination of worry about how my body looked and terror about getting pregnant meant that I waited until I’d left home and gone to university, where quite frankly, it was relief to get the whole first-time thing out of the way. And no, there were no fireworks and the earth didn’t move and the sky did not fall in. Instead, I spent the entire time wondering where I was supposed to put my legs and trying to politely ask if he could take his elbow off my hair because I thought that there was a risk of me getting scalped, which wasn’t really what I’d envisaged from the whole affair. And yes, it got better after that (or maybe I got better after that) and there were several longer-term boyfriends, one of whom I remember fondly and the other two who have been consigned to my he-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken list.
So, five if I include Nick, which of course I should, because we’ve been married forever and that counts, surely? That doesn’t seem too shoddy or too promiscuous. I can live with five.
Circling answer C (which is slightly disappointing as I’d have thought five partners would place me slightly higher up the scoreboard than that) I read on.
How good are you at undoing a belt?
Ha! Now this is the kind of question that was written for me. I am the queen of undoing belts, thanks to the fact that my irresponsible family are constantly putting their dirty jeans and trousers in the laundry basket with the belts still attached. I can sort whites from darks and unbutton shirts and whip belts out from trouser loops with my eyes closed. I am an expert.
Except I have clearly overestimated my skills. The options suggest that there are women out there whose talents at belt removal far exceed my own pathetic offerings. No, I cannot undo a belt with my teeth. I can’t think of a single time that I would wish to do so. Doing it with my eyes closed is actually answer B, which gives me a brief thrill of achievement – but then I read on and see that it’s only eligible if I have done a sexy pole dance first. The image of me strutting my stuff as I sort through the day’s washing pile makes me snort.
I whizz through the remaining questions, revealing my most personal secrets, tot up my total points and turn the page to discover my fate. And it was just as I suspected all along. I am Hannah Thompson, Ultimate Sex Goddess: all lesser mortals bow down before my sultry and provocative nature.
I’m lying. My score puts me in the bottom league. Instead of achieving the heady heights of ‘Sex on Legs’, I am firmly placed in the ‘Could Try Harder’ category. I think the pun is intended but it’s difficult to know for sure.
Standing up, I head towards the door. If I’m quick I’ve got time to pop to the staffroom and grab a coffee before the next session of riot-control-slash-listening-to-new-and-innovative-homework-excuses.
I drop the magazine in the recycling bin as I walk past, wishing that I could abandon my slightly dented ego just as easily. Not that it matters. It’s just a stupid quiz and it doesn’t mean anything. I bet virtually every woman my age would get the same result that I did. There are far more important things in life than sex, and I’m sure that if I took a quiz called ‘How Nice Are You?’ or ‘How Efficient Are You?’ then I’d totally score in the top percentile.
I would on the efficiency quiz, anyway. I am very well organised. The jury would probably be hung on their verdict as to whether I’m nice. All they’d be able to say for sure is that since I’ve been doing this job, I appear to be getting less nice by the day.
Taylor Swift is admonishing me as I stumble into the room, my arms laden with yet another load of laundry. She informs me, in her dulcet tones, that she knew I was trouble when I walked in, which I think is fairly rude when all I’m doing is attempting to navigate from the kitchen door to the washing machine while avoiding the obstacles that my youngest child, Benji, and Dogger, the dog, have kindly put in place. Clearly they both felt that I needed the extra challenge.
‘Scarlet, can you please turn your phone off and set the table?’ I step nimbly over a skateboard. ‘Benji! Clear your stuff away now.’
Taylor segues into her next song like the professional that she is, asking me why I had to rain on her parade.
It is my lot as a mother, Taylor, I tell her silently. It’s just what I do. So if you’ve organised some kind of parade, or perhaps a party, then you can be fairly sure that I’m not going to like it. Especially if there will be boys or alcohol involved. And judging from your song lyrics, Ms Swift, I believe that there is a high possibility of that.
‘Hello, people!’ Dylan bounds into the room, throwing his arms out like Hugh Jackman in The Greatest Showman. ‘I am here!’
‘Congratulations for you,’ snarls Scarlet, finally turning off the music. ‘I’ve been here for the last sixteen years but I don’t make a song and dance about it.’
She does, though. In the last six months especially, Scarlet has started behaving as if her life is some kind of dramatic theatre production. And clearly, this particular production requires a lot of tortured expressions, self-introspection and extended monologues.
Dylan strolls across to his sister and flings his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re just not as special as I am,’ he says, pulling a sad face. ‘But don’t worry, little sis. I’m here for you.’
Scarlet gives him an almighty shove in the chest and he staggers backwards, narrowly avoiding Benji, who is attempting to remove his skateboard (as per my instructions) by putting Dogger on top and pushing her along.
I ram the washing into the machine and straighten up, sniffing the air. It smells suspiciously like burnt sausages.
‘Has anyone checked the oven?’ I politely enquire. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that I asked you all to keep an eye on the cooking while I sorted out the laundry.’
‘I’ve been revising for my Maths exam!’ Scarlet’s voice is laden with persecution. Nobody does aggrieved like my daughter.
‘I was in the bathroom.’ Dylan sits down and starts prodding at his phone.
‘Again?’ asks Benji, voicing what we’re all thinking. ‘You were in there for hours when we got home from school. Have you got diarrhoea or something?’
‘Why are you so gross?’ Scarlet glowers at him. ‘Nobody actually says stuff like that.’
Benji glances across the room at me, his face a picture of confusion.
‘I was only asking,’ he says. ‘Because we’ve been learning about germs in Science and I was just going to say that Dylan should probably wash his hands a bit better after he’s been to the toilet. Then he won’t keep needing to go.’
‘The supper?’ I ask, but nobody hears me. Dylan is exclaiming his disbelief that Benji could be so hypocritical as to talk to him about personal hygiene when we all know that Benji runs the tap and pretends to put his hands underneath but for some ungodly reason refuses to actually get them