Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
“I don’t want to wear these pants. I HATE these pants.” She stamps her bare foot on the floor, crosses her arms.
“What’s wrong with them honey? They used to be your favourite pair. You wore them yesterday.” Feigned patience.
“I hate them. They are too small, and they are itchy. I have ALWAYS hated them. I was faking it.”
“Well, Mummy hasn’t had the time to do any washing. I am afraid this is your only choice.”
When did I start talking about myself in the third person? And using the word Mummy? I throw the pants on the bed, leave the room; defeated.
Kids are like dogs. They can smell fear.
“You’re the WORST mum in the WORLD!”
“Thanks darling.” I secretly wonder if she is on to something.
“And I hate it when you are sarcastic.”
Self-hatred for lack of self-control. Pride in the insightfulness and eloquence of my five year old daughter.
Through gritted teeth;
“Listen. If you don’t get dressed now, we will be late. The bus is leaving for the excursion at 9. We have to go soon.”
Deep breath, soft voice, pleading;
“Please put the pants on darling.”
“NO! NO! NO! I hate THEM, and I hate YOU!”
She is red in the face, shaking. I want to hold her to me, comfort her. Let her know I understand frustration.
My mobile phone rings. It is the client I am supposed to be meeting in an hour. Against my instincts, I answer the call.
“Good morning. Jane Buchanan speaking”
“Hi Jane, it is Sarah Mayne here. I was just wondering if…”
I can’t hear her over the ear-piercing screech. I go in to the bathroom and lock the door.
“Sorry Sarah. What were you saying?”
She speaks slowly, like you would to a very old person, or a very young child.
“I was just asking if we could make the meeting a bit earlier?”
I do my best to sound normal, but the pounding on the bathroom door is distracting.
“It might be a bit of a push Sarah. I’m so sorry!” I don’t know why I am apologising. I haven’t broken any commitment. Not yet, anyway.
Her voice is cold. “Ok. See you at 9.30”
“Bye.”
“MUUUUUUUUUM!”
Unlock the door, rip it open.
“Couldn’t you see I was in the middle of a call? For Gods sake Amelia, why do you have to make life so fucking hard.”
That will come up in therapy. I wonder whether I should document it for her myself, so she doesn’t have to waste too much time wading through the mystery of her low self-esteem.
She puts her hands on her hips, eye contact, standing firm.
“You shouldn’t say bad words to me. That’s illegal. And it will teach me to say them.”
“You’re right honey. That was very bad of Mum. I’m sorry. Please, can you just get dressed now?”
She complies with every request. She puts the itchy pants on, and the ugly t-shirt that makes her look like a boy. She eats the cereal she hates, because I haven’t managed to go shopping and buy bread. She even lets me put her hair in a ponytail.
She is smug, self-righteous.
The bus is about to pull out of the drive when we finally get there. I have to park in front of it to alert the driver he can’t leave yet. He smiles, opens the door. Waiting doesn’t bother him. The teacher steps down. Her face is stern, voice brash.
“Come on Amelia. We have already waited for five minutes.”
Amelia reacts to the coldness, clings to my leg, buries her face in my hip.
The old bag grabs her, pulls her toward the bus.
“Come on, stop being silly!”
Amelia goes, but as she looks back at me, her eyes are teary, her mouth pursed tightly.
“It’s okay honey. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Just in case you have forgotten, school finishes early today.” She turns around, guides Amelia up the steps. I feel sick. I can’t bring myself to ask what time pick-up is. I will text Lisa.
~~~
Sarah is waiting at the office. She is early, but I apologise for making her wait anyway.
“Sorry, my daughter was being a little difficult this morning.”
“I don’t have kids.” Voice tinged with distaste, barely discernible screwed up nose. She doesn’t elaborate why. I suspect it is a lifestyle choice.
My chances of winning the contract are getting slimmer with each interaction, but I need this job…badly. I make a mental note not to mention children again.
Unlock the door, motion for her to enter.
“Take a seat through there. I will just go and grab the proposal.”