The Single Mums’ Picnic Club: A perfectly uplifting beach-read for 2018!. Jennifer JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
warned you about this bit. They told you all the gory details of labour and birth. The horror stories of night feeds and teething and the terrible twos (doubled, when you had twins). But they didn’t prepare you for the gut-wrenching moments when you had to leave them in the care of somebody else. They didn’t prime you for the guilt of being anything other than the child’s mother.
Finn was perfectly fine when Frankie phoned the nursery six-and-a-half minutes later. She’d run all the way home, taking a short-cut through the park, and hadn’t even bothered to ditch her coat before she dialled Parkside Day Nursery, panting and slightly sweating despite the bleak, early January chill.
‘Are you sure he’s okay?’ Frankie had been told that Finn was now happily splatting paint with bestie Poppy, but Frankie couldn’t seem to quell the nagging doubt that she was doing Something Wrong, a feeling that had plagued her for the past year. She could never quite shake off the feeling that she was failing her children, that she wasn’t good enough despite her best efforts. She’d moved to Clifton-on-Sea for a fresh start, but the feelings of inadequacy had moved with her. Most notably, and the concern Frankie could easily identify, was the worry about her poor babies’ lack of a two-parent family. Perhaps this was the reason Finn was so clingy now? Did he feel abandoned? Rejected?
‘He is absolutely fine.’ Keeley’s voice was upbeat, but then it always was so it offered little consolation. The lack of screaming in the background, however, was definitely a comfort. ‘He cried for, like, another minute. Two, max. And now he’s having a brilliant time with Poppy.’
‘Good.’ Frankie swallowed the urge to ask if the paint Finn was using was toxic-free and nudged the front door – which she hadn’t paused long enough to close – with her foot and unzipped her coat as she moved through to the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were still piled in the sink – another Something Wrong. ‘You’ll phone me if he needs me, won’t you? Because I work from home. I can be there in ten minutes. Less.’
‘Of course, but there’ll be no need. Finn was just thrown off kilter because of the Christmas break.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that’s all it is.’ Frankie didn’t necessarily agree, but she didn’t like to come across as a neurotic mum, even if she felt like one a lot of the time. She’d been horrified the first time Skye had marched out of the nursery, her wrist held in the air as she showed off her crafting skills. She’d created a bracelet by threading a mishmash of buttons and large wooden beads onto a length of elasticated cord. Where the nursery saw the opportunity to experiment and unleash the children’s creativity while practicing those all-important motor skills, Frankie had spotted a choking hazard the embellishments could have caused.
She’d managed to push down the fear and panic, but it had been there, and continued to present itself on a daily basis.
‘I’ll see you this afternoon then. About three?’ Frankie didn’t usually pick the twins up until at least five, but she needed to ease herself back into their routine. And to be honest, three o’ clock – almost six hours away – seemed like a stretch.
‘We’ll see you then. Have a good day!’
Frankie was about to ask after Finn one last time, just to really put her mind at ease, but the phone line was dead. She stared at her phone for a moment, contemplating ringing back – just for a super-quick call – but she came to her senses and shoved the phone into the pocket of her jeans before whipping off her coat and flicking the kettle on. She washed the dishes while she waited for the kettle to boil. There wasn’t actually a lot, just a couple of bowls and spoons, two plastic beakers, and a small plate – she really needed to stop beating herself up. She took her cup of tea into the office. Her office was actually a desk and a set of shelves squeezed into an alcove in the corner of the dining room, but it served its purpose and gave Frankie the space she needed to work as a freelance brand designer. Before the twins, she’d worked in a swanky office in the centre of Manchester, but she couldn’t face the long hours and the commute once her maternity leave was over, so she’d decided to set up on her own. It had been a risky decision, but one that was paying off, especially since the move away from her home town. She had a healthier balance between her work and home life, and it gave her more of a sense of ease being so close to her children. Of course, on days like these, it took a great effort to switch from mum mode to professional, but she managed to push aside her worries over Finn and concentrate on her latest task of designing a new website for her client. It was almost half past one before she came up for air, her shoulders and lower back aching, cup of tea cold. She winced as she stood, one hand massaging her back while the other reached for the cup. Her work had been largely neglected while the nursery had been closed over Christmas and the New Year, and she’d forgotten quite how stiff her body became as she hunched over her desk. She normally counteracted this with yoga and regular runs along the beach, but she pushed the thought away as she headed across to the kitchen. She’d placed her young children in nursery so she could work, so the thought of wasting that time on such frivolous acts when her son had been so miserable at being left that morning made her stomach knot with guilt.
No. She’d simply have to put up with the discomfort for now. Perhaps she’d do a bit of yoga once the twins were in bed tonight. Or a long, hot bath might do it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself anything more than a quick shower; there was always something more important to be getting on with than lazing in the bath.
She flicked the kettle on and poured the forgotten tea down the sink before opening the fridge in search of something to eat for lunch. There wasn’t much inside, apart from a few wrapped segments of a Chocolate Orange, the Chomp from Skye’s selection box, and half a bag of limp-looking Brussel sprouts. There was butter, but she groaned when she remembered she’d used the last of the bread for her toast that morning. And the cupboards were in a worse state than the fridge. She’d used up everything over the festive period (including a slightly out-of-date tin of Spam) as she couldn’t be bothered going to the effort of getting herself and the twins washed, dressed and bundled up in winter coats. They’d spent the past week surviving on non-perishables and she hadn’t faced the shops to stock up yet.
‘Bugger.’ Frankie closed the cupboard and sighed. It looked like she was going to have to venture out after all. And if she was heading out anyway, what was the harm in killing two birds with one stone and going for a little run as well? The fresh air would do her good and help to keep the creative cogs turning.
She raced up the stairs before she could allow the guilt of indulging in a bit of self-care to set in, changing into a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and the hoodie her brother had bought her for Christmas. After shoving her trainers on her feet and making sure she had her purse, keys and phone (just in case Finn needed her), she was ready to set out. She started off at a gentle pace as she jogged down to the seafront, easing herself back into the exercise after a week or two of excess eating, and she immediately felt her shoulders loosen. It was hard work after holing herself up for the past couple of weeks, and there was a definite danger of rain as the grey clouds darkened, but it was so freeing being out in the open, the sounds of the waves growing closer with each step. She was soon on the promenade, the wind whipping at her hot cheeks, her mouth stretched into a smile despite her exertions. She loved this feeling. She wished she could bottle it up for those times she felt trapped in the house with two mischievous toddlers rampaging around the rooms. Not that she would ever admit this out loud. Motherhood was precious. A gift. She knew she was incredibly lucky to have two happy, healthy children. That she was there to witness them growing up. Not everybody had that luxury.
Oh, but sometimes she missed the old Frankie. The fun Frankie who could drink her brother and his mates under the table at the pub. The Frankie who would meet her friends in town for endless afternoons of coffee, cake and gossip. The Frankie who could go to the toilet without being followed and quizzed about what she was doing. She loved her children so much, but she couldn’t help mourning the loss of the woman she was before, if only from the privacy of her own thoughts, and only briefly before she felt like a complete monster.
She picked up her pace, enjoying the scream of pain from her thighs as it overtook all thoughts and emotions. The old Frankie was gone, never to return, and