IT STARTS TO RAIN as we’re driving to Kath’s for some respite. I wasn’t planning on leaning on Kath today. I never actually plan to lean on people. If I could I would just do everything myself, happily and in indigo-wash skinny jeans that make my arse look incredible and don’t bunch round my ankles, but we can’t have it all, can we?
I’d planned just on having a lovely Saturday in IKEA to buy some storage for Lyla’s ever-growing collection of plastic toys. I read an article on Facebook about how children need to live in feng shui’d environments for their emotional well-being, and so now I’m concerned that Lyla’s expanding Shopkin collection is causing deep psychological damage, and that the answer to this is cheap (I don’t think the energy of the room will know the difference between IKEA or Harrods, and money’s tight living off a part-time salary and inconsistent child support from Simon) stacked tubs in assorted colours.
As with everything in my life, though, things didn’t run smoothly. Ikea was rammed. The world and his overwhelmed wife were out in force, ready to stand in aisles bickering over Billy bookcase wood finishes or whether that TV stand would or would not fit in the alcove.
By the time we’d reached the children’s department, I was sweating and had already thrown an assortment of junk I definitely didn’t need in my trolley. We chose our tubs (very much hoping they sufficiently provide Lyla with the best chance of future emotional fulfilment), and then were forced, as you are in these maze-like places, to go round the marketplace. This was my downfall.
I decided to ‘treat myself’. I’d been feeling so down and lonely, I reckoned that if I wanted a set of three heart-shaped chopping boards, then I could have them; nobody else was going to be buying me anything heart-shaped, after-bloody-all. And since it’s only me who walks on my bedroom carpet, if I wanted that black and yellow six-foot-by-six-foot rug, I should be allowed it. A gallery wall is always something I’ve wanted, so I liberally picked frames in the art section too. Thank God for my overdraft.
For a moment I felt a bit better. My full trolley had filled my empty heart and I was exhilarated from spending all that money on a whim. I knew I’d regret it at the end of the month, but in that moment, at the lifts to go down to the car, I felt great. Perhaps I’d discovered the solution to The Emptiness.
Minutes later, I realised I absolutely had not.
As soon as I opened the boot, I knew I’d fucked up. Unless there was a massive plot twist and my tiny car was actually a TARDIS, there was no way I was going to get four toy tubs (with lids), eight picture frames, two lamps, three chopping boards, six pairs of scissors (I don’t know why) and a six-foot rug in there.
I knew the best course of action was to move Lyla to the front and put the back seats down, but even thinking about everything involved with that tired me. I’d have to read the car manual to turn off the front airbags so she could have her booster in the front, consult the manual again to wrench down the seats, load everything in and return the trolley, and even then I wasn’t sure it would all fit.
I looked around despairingly, just in case there was a magic solution, and there they were – the family I was meant to be. A smart dad in jeans with a weekend shirt tucked in was pushing a trolley full of homeware, with a boy not much younger than Lyla hanging onto the front, enjoying the ride. Behind him, his lovely wife, in a soft pink wrap dress clinging to a perfectly round pregnancy bump and holding the little boy’s backpack (probably containing low-sugar snacks and wooden puzzles that he excels at). Perfect Mum takes Perfect Boy by the hand and sits him in his booster seat. Perfect Dad packs their things neatly into the boot. The winter sun is definitely shining more brightly over where they are …
I’m jolted back to reality by Lyla. ‘Mummy, I’m bursting for a wee-wee! Mummy! Mummy! Muuuuummmyy!’ Literally the last thing I want to do is take her back to the shop with my trolley and start this all over again.
‘OK, just wait a minute and we’ll sort it.’ This usually buys me a solid ten to twenty minutes. She’s never actually bursting.
I look back at my own parking space and try to focus. After ten minutes of huffing and puffing and a very real sweat patch appearing on my back, I’ve got one back seat down – the other one is refusing to budge. So many people have passed by and seen me struggling, heaving and grunting, all while Lyla’s been sat in the trolley, telling me loudly that she needs a wee (everyone can hear and will be thinking I’m crap for not dealing with that first) and waiting for me to sort her seat out. Just to show her she’s not going to be sat in the trolley forever, I lift (more like heave – she’s far too big for trolleys now) her out and have her stand safely by the front of the car while I deal with the boot.
Nobody has offered to help.
Why would they? They don’t need to. They’re in their family units, blissfully unaware of how desperately shit it feels to not have a unit. How crap it is to try to work out how to turn an airbag off while your daughter jumps about on the spot needing the loo. How physically demanding it actually is to feed a six-foot rug through your boot and into the back seat.
I want a Perfect Dad man to do this with me. I want to be wearing a soft wrap dress. I want to not have to look at how desolate my morning has been.
I’ve crammed everything in and sweated through my top to create oh-so-sexy damp underarm patches, when some guy walks past muttering ‘I think your kid needs the loo.’ Oh for fuck’s sake I know! I turn my attention to Lyla who’s hopping up and down on the spot like she’s trying not to cry.
‘Mummy I’m going to wee!’
She says this with a new kind of urgency and that ten to twenty minutes grace window is suddenly more like ten to twenty seconds. Great, so now strangers are more in tune with my daughter’s needs. Oh God. I look wildly around at my surroundings, scoping out the nearest facilities and deep down I know they’re back in the store. Shit shit shit.
‘MUMMY IT’S COMING!’
I scoop her up and run through the carpark. My boot and passenger door are still open and fuck, I’ve left my handbag there too but instinct took over and I couldn’t bear for her to have to wet herself. I run like an athlete (a very cumbersome, unbalanced, wildebeest-esque athlete) to IKEA’s lobby and practically throw myself and my attached offspring into a loo. Without even stopping to shut the stall door I pull down leggings and pants and sit her on a toilet. Instant relief. We made it. I cannot believe I came that close to making my six-year-old daughter have an accident.
‘Ew, Mummy there’s a man in here!’.
In my panic and hurry I’ve taken my little girl to the less than hygienic men’s loos. I put my hand over her eyes.
Will I ever get this right?