The Secret Life of an Uncool Mom

Serena Terry

• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9780008553302
• Print ISBN:
  9780008553296

1

That’s not Nutella

Everything is perfect. My house is perfect. My life is perfect. My children are perfect. My heart is full and at peace. Which can only mean one thing: the shit is about to hit the fan.

As sure as night follows day, the moment I, Tara Gallagher – wife, mother, friend – so much as think, ‘Ah, this is lovely. Everything is as it should be,’ something big happens. Something big. And bad. And generally very messy.

On a good day, if you asked me to describe myself, I’d say I’m a thirty-six-year-old, happily married mum of three, and I’d stand by that, that’s a nice description, right? On a bad day, I’d say I’m an emotionally exhausted mess of a woman, who is hanging on by a thin thread every single day trying to be a good mother, wife, friend, daughter and colleague with a social life of her own, a successful career and a body that I most definitely have ‘let go’.

And today was supposed to be a good day.

In about twenty minutes’ time my firstborn child – my princess – will walk through the front door with her best friend Mia in tow. It’s her thirteenth birthday. A momentous day in the Gallagher house. We have successfully completed Level 12 parenting and Gemma is progressing to the big leagues and Level 13. I kept a child alive for thirteen years, can you believe it? Go me! (And Paul; I suppose it was a team effort.)

I take a deep breath. I am ready for this. I took a half-day from work and have spent the last three hours pinning photos of Gemma, from birth to now, on the walls of our kitchen. She asked for helium number balloons like the ones influencers use on Instagram when they get to a new milestone of followers. Eugh. But for her, I got them, and some retro Poundshop balloons for good measure.

I’ve dusted off my old disco lights, which were lying in the back of the garage, and have confettied the kitchen table to within an inch of its life (I’m a dick: I’m already thinking about the mess afterwards …). There are plastic Prosecco flutes, ready to be filled with sparkling apple juice. I bought her favourite pink icing cupcakes instead of a cake. There are crisps and sweets (foam shrimps and cola bottles) and a chocolate fountain with marshmallows and strawberries and bananas for dipping. It’s all very Instagrammable. Teenagers love this shit, right? I get a pang of something between grief and nostalgia – it seems like only yesterday I was covering this kitchen in Disney Princess-themed decorations, and Gemma was dressed as Belle, her favourite princess at the time. And somehow now I’m hosting her thirteenth birthday party – how has time gone so fast!? Like, granted, I wake up every day with a new joint pain, but I often forget that I’m not still in my mid-twenties.

Before I get the chance to have a panic attack about the passage of time, I am dive-bombed by two small, very strong, very loud and – I can see – very, very hyper boys.

‘Mammeeeee,’ Nathan, my adorably manic five-year-old, shouts. ‘Can we go to the trampoline? I want to jump! My legs feel fizzy, and my arms, and my hands and my face …’

Looking down, there’s a sticky congealed mess of slabbers and sugar coating his lips and cheeks. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Shite. Classic sugar-rush symptoms. Behind him, my two-year-old Jax has done a mini Full Monty – all his clothes gone bar one sock, a drool-soaked vest and his nappy, staring at his own hands as if he has just discovered he owns them.

He is clattered, and I do mean absolutely clattered, in the same gooey sugar shite that Nathan is. At least I hope it’s sugar. By the look of them both I wouldn’t be surprised if they were off their shiny tits on cocaine. (Not that we have cocaine in the house, mind. The hardest drug we rock is Calpol for Over Sixes – aka The Hard Stuff.) With a deep sinking horror, I take my gaze from them to the kitchen table where I am at least two bowls of fizzy cola bottles down.

Sweet and gentle Jesus.

‘Nathan, did you take some of the sweeties from the table?’ I ask, hoping that my Cocomelon-esque sing-song voice is hiding the sense of mild hysteria clawing at my very soul.

He looks at me, his eyes wide as my new Primark support knickers. ‘Fizzy candy,’ he says in a voice that sounds more Darth Vader than five-year-old boy. He also speaks in an American accent as we’re deep in the age of YouTube parenting. Don’t judge me, I’ll bet my bottom dollar you’ve got a half-Yank child or grandchild running about.

Glancing over his head I spot a trail of destruction that makes my head spin. Toys and clothes are scattered as if there has been an explosion in a soft play centre. A lone sock dangles precariously from the light fitting. An abandoned, upturned Fruit Shoot is leaking its purple-coloured poison into my new cream rug. (Yes, my children drink Fruit Shoots. Yes, I am a mammy of young children and I bought a cream rug. Call me a silly cow later; I’ve bigger fish to fry.) The closing bars to the Paw Patrol theme tune blasts from the living room and God, I’m scared now but I must show no fear. These little shits can smell fear.

‘Mammmmeeeeee,’ Nathan says as he follows me.

‘Just a minute, pet,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Mammy’s going to turn the sound down on the TV so I can hear you properly.’

When I walk into the living room I want to cry. I think I might actually cry. It was tidy and clean when I left it. All ready for Gemma and her friends to come have her party. It looked like something out of the Ikea catalogue. But now – sweet living lord! Now, it looks like a case for one of those hoarder cleaning crews in Hazmat suits. I’m pretty sure every toy my children have ever owned is strewn around the room; that definitely looks like permanent marker on the wall, my sofa cushions are upturned on the floor and in the middle of one of them there is a mass of wet, sticky, slimy cola bottles. And who in the name of my wee Granny Annie (rest her soul) smeared Nutella on the sofa? Christ on a bike.

‘Mammeeeeee,’ Nathan opines again as I wonder if he is too old to be put up for adoption.

‘Nathan, pet, what happened here?’ I ask, and really I deserve an award for my acting skills right now because he doesn’t seem to have any idea whatsoever that I’m about to lose my actual shit.

He shrugs. ‘Didn’t like ’em so I spitted ’em out.’

‘After sucking the sugar off?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘I only liked the sugar part.’

‘Ahh you liked that?’ I ask. ‘Did you like making a big mess too?’

He nods enthusiastically, then, perhaps seeing my gritted teeth or my twitching eye and catching on that this might not be the response I was hoping for, he stops himself and starts to shake his head solemnly instead. The self-preservation is strong in this one.

‘Right,’ I say, to myself as much as anyone. ‘We’d better try and tidy this up a bit.’ I regretfully smell-test the Nutella on the sofa … Ah fuck, it’s not Nutella.

‘But mammmeeeeeee,’ Nathan says, and the whine is back in his voice.

I take a deep breath. ‘I know your head is fizzy and your hands are fizzy, but it’s your big sister’s birthday party and we need to tidy up. Will we sing the tidy-up song?’ I don’t have a tidy-up song, but I’m sure I can bastardize a Beyoncé song to suit the purpose. (‘To the left, to the left, put all that plastic crap in a pile to the left.’)

‘’S’not that, Mammy,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Jax boked on the carpet.’

I can’t speak. I am struck mute by the full horror of the situation unfolding in front of my eyes. How am I going to get shit off the sofa and vomit out of the carpet before the girls get home without the eau de puke permeating everything?

‘And Mammy …’ Nathan continues before I cut him off with what can only be considered a death glare, which I immediately regret when I see his bottom lip start to wobble.

‘Sorry, pet,’ I say in my best not-a-horrible-mammy voice. ‘What is it?’

‘Am gonny boke too.’

Woah there, crotch-goblin. Not on my watch.

Or more accurately, not on my cream carpet.

With lightning reflexes, I scoop him up in one seamless movement before hurtling at breakneck speed – past the baby who is now contently playing with a toy car beside a puddle of his own vomit and a shitty nappy he removed himself – into the downstairs toilet in the nick of time. As he manages to get almost all his regurgitated sugar and Fruit Shoot into the toilet bowl, and only a small amount is sprayed down the front of my lovely new white T-shirt, I remind myself that in days to come this will be a memory I will laugh about. I’ll probably be in a nursing home, swigging from a bottle of vodka I asked them to smuggle me in, mind you, but I’ll be having a wee giggle about it too, I’m sure.

His stomach emptied, Nathan rests his head against my soggy chest and it appears all the fizzy must be gone from his system because his eyes flutter closed and he falls asleep in my arms. At least, I hope it’s sleep and not a diabetic coma.

In moments such as these, when my children are finally asleep, I often realize just how much I love them. And I love the very bones of Nathan. Even when he is a rascal – and this definitely falls into rascal territory – my heart can’t help but swell with love for my blue-eyed boy.

Carefully, I carry him upstairs and lay him on top of his bed before pulling an old, battered grey T-shirt from my drawer to change into while I clean up. I’m halfway down the stairs, and halfway into my new T-shirt, hands over my head, face hidden, and an ill-fitting bra on full display when I hear the front door open, quickly followed by the perhaps the loudest intake of breath I have ever heard in my entire life.

Hauling my T-shirt down to make myself decent I see my beloved eldest child staring at me with a mixture of rage and humiliation. Beside her, the best of her BFFs, Mia, has her hand clamped over her mouth in shock. Mia has not only seen my tatty-bra-covered boobs, but is now also turning green at the sight of the vomit on the hall carpet.

I don’t even have time to speak before Gemma does. ‘Oh. My. God. Why do you have to ruin everything? You’re so embarrassing!’

It’s as if our roles have reversed but as I try to find a way to explain myself, she lifts Jax from the floor and stomps off upstairs muttering to Mia that she ‘has to do everything in this house’.

‘Offer it up for the Holy Souls,’ I whisper to myself. It’s her hormones. Or her age. Or maybe she’s just turning into a really horrible child. The kind everyone whispers about in the car park after birthday parties …

No. No, she’s mine, she can’t be a dick, it’s her age. Puberty is brutal. Seeing your mammy in her bra is brutal. Walking in on a scene that looks like it could be from an NSPCC ad is really brutal. I’ll make it up to her, I tell myself. This will be the best birthday party of her life. I’ll make sure of it.

Just as soon as I’ve figured out how to get permanent marker off the walls, vomit off the carpet and actual shit off my sofa.

FML.

2

Five, six, seven, eight

I’m impressed at how quickly I’m able to undo the damage the boys have done. By the time Paul – the Ross to my Rachel – arrives home from work, things are almost back to normal. The permanent-marker situation is still unresolved but I’ve been able to hide it behind a hastily shifted side table.

Yes, I might now look like a hella hot mess and, yes, I may have already poured myself a glass of wine purely for medicinal reasons, but I have won this battle. Thankfully, Paul and I know each other pretty well by now. For example, I know that when he comes in from work on a Friday night, he likes to crack open a bottle of his favourite beer while he fantasizes about what we will order from the Chinese after the kids are in bed. I know not to comment on this. I know not to ask him why he needs to study the menu when we both know he’s going to order the banquet for one, with an extra portion of chicken balls – just like he does every week.

In return, he knows that if he arrives home to see me halfway down a glass of rosé and with a slight twitch in my right eye, then he’s best to speak only to apologize for his role in impregnating me with whatever child has worked my last nerve that day.

‘Are you ready to talk about it yet?’ he asks, and I shake my head. I fear I’ll punch him in the testicles.

‘Which one was it this time?’

‘The boys. Vomit, shit and permanent marker all made an appearance. It was bad, Paul. It was very bad.’

‘As bad as the time they Sudocremed the sofa?’

I think for a moment. That was a nightmare, yes, but it didn’t threaten to ruin a hormonal almost-teen’s birthday party. ‘Worse,’ I say, taking a big drink of my wine. His eyes widen imperceptibly. ‘It was full-on code red, or should I say code brown, and Gemma managed to arrive home with Mia right in the middle of it. I may have also flashed my breasts.’

‘Oh,’ he says, and I nod. Neither of us need to say more. We are both aware of how volatile our precious firstborn has become. ‘The place looks well though,’ he says, looking around the kitchen, which retains its party-central feel. ‘Does she love it?’

‘She hasn’t seen it yet. Stormed upstairs as soon as she came in. I left some cold drinks and crisps outside her room and I’ve heard her and Mia doing TikToks, so hopefully her mood will be better by the time her other friends arrive.’ Which, I see from looking at the clock on the wall, will be any time now. Desperate not to do anything else to bring the wrath of Gemma down on my shoulders, I ask Paul to mind the boys and get them ready for bed while I run upstairs and have a quick shower. I remind myself that I’m one very lucky girl – Paul has arrived home sweaty, with engine oil smudged on his face and hands. With his dark hair and tall physique he could’ve stepped out of a Lynx poster in the nineties. If the models had dad bods instead of washboard stomachs. But hey, do not knock a dad bod: my husband, to me, is an absolute ride.

By the time Gemma’s besties arrive I will have shed my sweaty, stressed-out appearance and will have transformed into the kind of cool mammy every teenager wants. I have to make it quick though, so it’s more of a trailer-park wash than a proper shower. Tying my damp hair up into a messy bun, I slip on the very trendy new PJs I bought to get onboard with the sleepover theme. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I think I look OK. Cute even. Yeah, let’s go with cute.

I can put the carnage of the last few hours behind me and get in the zone to help my big girl have a truly unforgettable night. I’ve got this. I can boss this in my sleep. When I was a teenager, my birthday parties were the place to be. We would have sleepovers with karaoke and dance routines. We’d laugh so much that our sides would ache and if we were lucky...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Chapter 1: That’s not Nutella
• Chapter 2: Five, six, seven, eight
• Chapter 3: Bonnie Tyler has entered the building
• Chapter 4: The fuck-it list
• Chapter 5: I’m not cursing, I’m praying
• Chapter 6: What about my muffin top?
• Chapter 7: Away and take your face for a shite
• Chapter 8: I can tout on my five-year-old, right?
• Chapter 9: Le dinosaur de turkey … oui oui
• Chapter 10: If Beyoncé did it, so can I
• Chapter 11: Am I dead, is this how it ends for me?
• Chapter 12: Hashtag LadyBoss
• Chapter 13: It’s fine, I’m fine but my God he is FINNNNNNE
• Chapter 14: All the gear, still no idea
• Chapter 15: Cheeses duck!
• Chapter 16: Pink hair, don’t care
• Chapter 17: It’s not the menopause, FFS!
• Chapter 18: The slippery wee shite
• Chapter 19: Fuckssake patriarchy
• Chapter 20: In my defence, it was my jeans that got me stuck
• Chapter 21: Well, Oprah, it’s like this …
• Chapter 22: I could fake my own death, right?
• Chapter 23: That’s my jam
• Chapter 24: I can hear colours
• Chapter 25: Shove your organic parenting up your hole, Janice
• Chapter 26: They messed with the wrong mammy
• Chapter 27: Shit happens
• Chapter 28: No one’s gonna piss on my parade
• Chapter 29: Dig for spuds, ladies
• Chapter 30: Blonde is the new pink
• Chapter 31: My name is Tara and I am a shitty wife
• Chapter 32: Take your too-tight trousers and leave
• Chapter 33: Shake it off
• Chapter 34: I’ve found my tribe
• Chapter 35: Hello, boss bish speaking, how can I help?
• Epilogue: New phone, who dis?
• A Glossary of Derry/Irish speak
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author
• About the Publisher