Spinning Around (11 page)

During
my
time of trial, I relied on homemaker magazines. My brief moments of respite—when I was sitting on the toilet, say, or waiting at the Early Childhood Clinic, pushing Jonah back and forth in his pram—were always spent poring over paint catalogues or photographs of window treatments. Raptly, I would marvel at the names of the colours. (Whoever thought of ‘minced onion' as a name? Or ‘reef cocktail'? Or ‘medici sunset'?) Enviously, I would study shots of somebody's renovated 1830s farmhouse, wondering how there could be so many people in the world with money for Georgian book-cupboards and silk tapestries. It was the only time in my life when I've ever been able to talk to Kerry about anything; we could discuss German dishwashers and hardwood inlays and be more or less on the same wavelength, because I had vaulting ambitions, at that stage, owing to my constant reading of
Interiors
and
Country Style
.

Since then, I've calmed down a bit—just as Jonah has. I've abandoned my visions of parquet floors and Miele appliances, and settled for something more basic. With the result that I'm back to square one with Kerry, reduced to comments about the weather, or the state of the traffic. It's terrible. I suppose I could solve the problem to some degree by complimenting her generously on her clothes, dinnerware, paintings, view, jewellery or entertainment system, but I just can't do it. I'm too mean-spirited. Not like Matt, who has a better nature than I do. He's always quite happy to admire Paul's Plasma-screen TV and concealed speakers with unselfconscious delight, because he doesn't have an envious or judgemental bone in his body. I bet he never once even thought to compare our Persian rug with the Irwins' Persian rug, at lunch today, whereas I was constantly making comparisons. For example: This house might be bigger than ours, but it's too stitched up—you can't relax in it. This dining suite may be expensive but it's going to go out of style pretty quickly—ours will never go out of style, because it's antique. Our bath is nicer than this one. My eyes are bigger than Kerry's. My husband is better looking than any other man in this room.

There were two other men and three other women, besides Kerry and Paul. They were all pretty nice. One of the blokes seemed to think a bit too much of himself (he was some kind of chief executive officer) and the other one hardly uttered a word, but the women were friendly. The CEO's wife had this whole routine worked out, based on the fact that she and her husband had recently—owing to his phenomenal success— found themselves mixing with people whose tastes and incomes were beyond anything she'd ever had to deal with before. So she'd rattle her bracelets and giggle about how she'd been faking an intimate familiarity with restaurants she'd never heard of; how she'd been complaining about the
Sydney Morning Herald
to one of the Fairfaxes, without realising it; how she had made a big, big mistake when she'd started denigrating miniature dogs at a party in Rose Bay. I mean, she was only saying all this because she wanted to make a point about her social horizons, but it was very nicely done. And she knew enough to giggle at everyone else's stories, too.

The other women were genuinely pleasant. Bettina was thin and dark, with huge, luminous, pale green eyes and one of those lovely soft voices that you normally associate with yoga teachers or massage therapists. Even if she had said something rude, it wouldn't have come off that way—and of course she didn't. Every word she uttered was reassuring, sympathetic or grateful. Looking at her, you just knew that she used a lot of essential oils and had a cat called Thalia.

Candice was a lot sharper, but in an amusing way. She made wry observations about being attacked by a modern sculpture, and doing battle with a child-proof latch. She talked about the thief she'd surprised climbing through her bathroom window; he'd said ‘Sorry, love' before making his getaway, as if he was turning down an invitation to a cup of tea. (‘I almost said “Sorry” myself, when I burst in on him,' she admitted. ‘Force of habit, I suppose.') She had big brown eyes behind owlish glasses, and was dressed so drably that I couldn't help feeling relieved. In fact I was astonished that Kerry had even let her through the door, until I discovered that, despite the scuffed sandals and Indian cotton skirt, Candice was the daughter of a literary agent and a wealthy politician (I forget their names) and was running her own successful furniture restoration business when she wasn't looking after her teenaged boys.

That made me a bit glum, I can tell you. Three teenaged boys
and
a successful business! Fortunately, she wasn't a whole-food mother—‘I usually go for the easiest option,' she confessed to me—but even so it was intimidating. Particularly when the youngest son turned out to be a total delight. Declan, his name was. Fresh-faced, alert, a talented guitarist, thirteen years old and
polite
, my God, I couldn't believe it. Smiled. Answered questions. Responded with genuine interest (instead of total incomprehension) when Matt confessed to having been a drummer in a band. Poor Declan, he was really making an effort; it wasn't his fault that he was a bit hazy on dates, and made the mistake of asking if Matt had worked with—uh— AC/DC? Or the guy who wrote ‘Eagle Rock'?

Naturally, we all laughed at that, and Declan looked bewildered.

‘Bit before my time, those blokes,' Matt said gently.

‘Oh.'

‘Bit outta my league, and all.'

‘They're experts in the art of making you feel ancient,' said Candice, once her son had finally managed to extricate himself from adult company. ‘They do it all the time.'

‘Oh, isn't it awful, though?' the CEO's wife yelped. ‘Suddenly I'm middle-aged! I don't know how it happened! I find myself saying the
exact same things
my mother used to say to me!'

‘Well, it's inevitable,' Paul said comfortably. ‘You can't help it. You just have to resign yourself—one day, you'll be playing golf every weekend. It's happening already. I've got myself a set of clubs and everything. Soon I'll be subscribing to the
Readers
Digest
, and watching
Gardening Australia
.'

‘Hey,' I protested with a laugh. ‘Don't knock
Gardening
Australia
. It's a great show. I
always
watch it.'

‘Mulch,' Matt added. ‘It's always about mulch. What
is
mulch, anyway, some kind of fertiliser?'

‘Mulch, my friend, is the answer to all of your problems,' Paul rejoined, reaching for the wine. ‘People never stop talking about mulch these days, have you noticed?
Every single barbecue
I've attended in the last six months, I've ended up discussing mulch.'

‘That's a dig at me,' Candice interposed. ‘Just because I showed him my mulcher, last time he visited. Paul, I'm
proud
of my mulcher.'

‘This woman puts mulch on her kids. I just know it. Their beds are full of pine bark, you mark my words.'

‘And what if they are? Has it done them any harm? I don't think so.'

‘Christ, are we talking about mulch
again
?' lamented the CEO, in mock despair, and Matt laughed.

‘It's true,' he said, ‘we're middle-aged. My dad always talks about mulch—mulch and his grapevines. I must be turning into my dad.'

But he wasn't, of course. For one thing, he wouldn't know the difference between a grapevine and a tiger lily. For another, he didn't look the least bit middle-aged—not like the rest of the men at that lunch. They were all going bald, and spreading out. They were all wearing polo shirts and mobile phones. Despite the odd glint of grey, and a bit of slack skin here and there, Matt seemed as vital as he had ever been. Perhaps it was something to do with his hair, which sprang from his head in thick, vigorous waves. Perhaps it was the fact that his jeans had a hole in them.

I sat contemplating him while Candice said something about tut-tutting over the skimpy kids' fashions, these days. Then Matt said something about
Rolling Stone
. Then reference was made to the phenomenon of middle-aged men divorcing their wives for young, blonde trophies, at which point I decided that I'd rather not discuss that particular subject, in the circumstances, and went to find Jonah.

I wanted him to take a nap. He had been surprisingly good, since we arrived—thanks to Zoe. She'd dressed him up as a pirate, and he liked that. She'd pulled out her old Duplo, and he'd liked that too. He was at his most gorgeous, all sweet smiles and round, brown eyes and earnest, puckered brow, explaining at length, in his deep, serious voice, that dogs and beavers could be friends. Zoe thought he was lovely. You could see it in her face. She takes after her dad, because it's possible to see what she's thinking from her expression. Gemma, on the other hand, is prim and secretive, like her mum.

But that's all right, because Emily gets along with just about everybody. Nasty comments simply bounce off her, leaving her sunny good humour intact. Whatever anyone else wants to do is fine with her; it makes me tremble a bit, when I see how like Matthew she is. She's exactly the same sort of person—the sort of person who'd go pig-shooting in Queensland because her mates suggested it. She's going to be a nightmare teenager. Not sullen or moody, but suggestible. It'll be all tongue-studs and Ecstasy, I know it will. Unless I come down hard, the way my parents would have. But should I? After all, Matt was the same, and look how he turned out.

An adulterer, maybe, but an irresistible one.

Emily was playing with Gemma's doll's house when I came to do battle with Jonah. She was crouched on the floor of Gemma's bedroom, her knees up around her ears, carefully dressing a Barbie doll under Gemma's close supervision. Jonah was pushing buttons on an old toy cash register. He wasn't cooperative.

‘No,' he said, when he heard the word ‘bedtime'.

‘Come on Jonah, please. Be a good boy.'

‘No!'

‘Don't you want to sleep in Zoe's bed? Hmm?'

‘Oh yes, Jonah!' Zoe's eager eyes sparked as comprehension dawned. ‘Yes, don't you want to sleep in my bed? Where I sleep?'

He looked at her suspiciously. His expression became mulish.

‘Come and see Zoe's bed, Jonah,' I said in brisk tones. ‘Come on. Come and see.'

‘It's got a big, fluffy toy cat on it!' Zoe continued. That sold him. He allowed himself to be led into Zoe's room, where I had closed the cedar shutters (must have cost a fortune) and turned down the broderie anglaise bedclothes. He's a stubborn little soul, is Jonah. Touchy and sensitive, but with a steely streak that Emily doesn't have. You can tell that—despite all the emotional knocks he might experience along the way—he's going to end up doing, very successfully, exactly what he wants to do, and that no-one's going to distract him from his purpose.

Like playing with the cash register, for instance.

‘No—no more cash register for now,' I told him. ‘You can have a nap in Zoe's bed, with Zoe's cat, and
then
you can play.'

‘No,' he said, sticking out his bottom lip.

‘You can have some milk. Warm milk. Do you want some warm milk?'

‘Okay.'

‘Then into bed, please.'

He shook his head.

‘What if I read you a story, Jonah?' Zoe suggested. ‘If you get into bed, I'll read you a story.'

‘Oh, boy! That sounds good. Do you want a story, Jonah?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then get into bed, please.'

It went on and on like this, interspersed by a couple of eruptions. You might wonder why I bothered. You might think that I was being unnecessarily rigid about my schedule. After all, it was the weekend. Why not kick back and let the kids fall into a natural rhythm, doing their own thing while the adults murmured together over their Thai salad, and the sun arched across the sky?

Well, let me tell you why. Because if Jonah doesn't take a nap in the middle of the day, we all suffer for it. He whines, he screams, he cries at every little setback. He becomes ‘overtired'. And if that happens, then it's hard to get him to sleep at night, too. As I said, he has nerves like violin strings. He's even had night terrors, on occasion, and that's the scariest thing I've ever seen. I'd do
anything
to keep those at bay.

The trouble is, it's very difficult to get him to sleep in a strange house. He won't be left alone, for a start. He has to be patted, and sung to, and sometimes even joined in bed. I can spend up to an hour trying to settle him when we're out, and even then he'll only sleep for forty-five minutes. With the result that he wakes up grumpy and clingy, demanding attention. And I never really enjoy the rest of our visit.

He's always been a bad sleeper. Emily was such a good baby: she smiled a lot, she stopped crying when you picked her up and went to sleep after you fed her, she was sleeping through the night at six months and never reverted thereafter. Jonah, on the other hand, was a nightmare. Before I had Jonah, I didn't know what it was all about—not really. Women in my mothers' group would talk about feeding problems and sleeping problems and I would think: There's no way on earth I would ever take my baby to bed/leave her to cry for fifteen minutes/feed her formula before the age of two months. I just didn't understand. I didn't understand that when you get desperate enough, you'll do anything. Literally anything.

But there was nothing I could do—that was the problem. While my presence used to comfort Emily, it didn't comfort Jonah. Neither did food, burping, clean nappies, dummies, or being rhythmically jounced up and down or pushed back and forth. ‘He's not very comfortable in the world, is he?' my Early Childhood nurse once said, and she was right—he wasn't. Or perhaps he was just bored, poor darling; who wouldn't be bored, lying in a bassinette all day, unable to ask for a thicker blanket? Anyway, whatever the problem was, I couldn't believe that there wasn't a solution somewhere. Fatalism isn't part of the western way of life, after all. If there's a problem, we have to fix it. The trouble was that I couldn't fix it. No matter what I did, no matter what tests he endured for gastric reflux (negative) or lactose intolerance (negative), I couldn't make my child happy.