A mother's love

The role of motherhood is plagued with such unfairness, and you just have to get in the real world and toughen up; nevertheless unexpected blows can hit you hard when they strike.

I’m sure I shall look back on the many moments of acute embarrassment, my son Max mercilessly inflicts on me, with nostalgia and affection. But last night as we were driving through Muswell Hill Broadway on the way to Dance, such positive emotions could not have been further from my mind.

We had cause to stop at the lights on a pedestrian crossing and as the beeping subsided and the little green man turned to red, an alarming number of pedestrians glanced our way. They were drawn to the rhythmic boom boom and pulsating sound waves blasting out from the car. The stereo as always, was cranked up to maximum and Take That were in full throttle with ‘Shine’. This is one of Max’s favourite pop songs, and although it might not be to the taste of all Londoners, they were sure to hear it loud and clear throughout Muswell Hill Broadway and beyond. If they were surprised that the car wasn’t a small red or black Ford Fiesta with tinted dark windows, or that I was not a young man in his early twenties, they didn’t show it. I found huge interest in the road ahead and forged my way through the stares with mock indifference. Max was too busy belting out the melody at the top of his lungs to spot or bother about anybody staring at us, and I loved him for it.

Max was not amused when I picked him up from School today. I was to drive him to his literacy teacher Julia, just around the corner from the school. I explained to him that the car battery was on the blink (very nervous times for me as I become highly stressed in an unreliable car). In all honesty, I’m not too fussed at what type of car I drive and I could settle for any colour given time, but my car must be able to get me from A to B without conking out. It’s up there with some of life’s essentials, along with daily clean underwear and drawing the line at eating left over curry take away for breakfast.

Because of the low battery and odd whirring sound on ignition, all electrical appliances in the car were off limits and that included the CD player. I carefully explained to Max that the CD player would have to remain silent on our short journey to Julia’s. I attempted to compare it to the life and habits of his ipod battery, which he is familiar with and very good at remembering to re-charge. However he couldn’t quite grasp the concept, although I fear it was more through blind irritation that we were unable to have his favourite songs pumping out at full volume, rather than any intellectual gap. He was quite furious with me, (not an irregular occurrence) which I always feel is unjustly cruel. However he did have a point when he grumpily suggested,
“You could have gone to Kwick Fit and got a new battery before you picked me up Mum.”

But very occasionally in life, a daisy will pop up in a barren field and surprise you. A box of Author copies of Living with Max were delivered this week. Such an incredible experience, mildly surreal, to look at a book and realise I’ve actually written it; it feels like it’s happening to somebody else. The very top of all the delights this book has given, has to be the significant elevation of my street cred’ in my children’s eyes. I’m basking in the glow of an accolade never before received. They’ve both looked past the Mum who delivers clean laundry and an interesting supper every day and seen a real person. It’s wonderful. I’m thrilled and a little shaken to see them both trot off to school armed with their own dedicated copy, happy to gush with pride about their Mum. They must be having a good time of it because both copies have made repeated trips.

Max has asked me to read Living with Max to him. He’s poured over every inch of the cover, running his fingers over the gold lettering, and tried his best to read all the words. He’s thumbed through all the pages, but I know to him the neat endless print looks like a misty sea. He hides his frustration well. I say I know, when in fact I don’t. I have no real idea how he must feel. To look at a book, desperate to be able to access its pages and join in all the fuss and commotion they’ve caused. But he remains trapped on the periphery. He pretends well, holds it together and ‘wings’ it when we all talk about it, but I’ll never really know how he genuinely feels. As his mother, that breaks my heart. I shall gladly read him every page, but I suspect it is going to be hard, in more ways than one.

When I met for the first time with everyone at Vermilion (Random House) a perceptive Editor asked me how I felt about writing such personal details regarding my son. At the time I brushed the question off with ease; I genuinely had no concerns about my work. I was predominantly writing about a baby and toddler. I may be wrong, but I didn’t see my work as a betrayal of Max. Times have changed. Max is now a teenager and I’ve found I can no longer write about him with quite the same freedom. It was fine to reveal such intimacies about a young child, but it’s become quite another matter as a young teenager, flirting with adulthood. The line will always be fine and grey, and although Max is the first to rejoice when I write about him, some moments should remain private. In hindsight, it makes Living with Max even more of a treasure.