I’ve come across magazine articles in which some public figure is asked what, if they had the chance, they would say to themselves as a child. The answers are usually: “keep being yourself, you’re beautiful inside and out”, “love yourself, you wonderful creature”, and so on.
One of the nice things about not being a public figure is that I won’t be asked that kind of question. Because if I had to pass on some message to myself as a child, it wouldn’t be encouraging. It would be a warning, and it would read:
“Just so you know, you won’t turn out to be a pushy mum either.”
When I was little, I dreamt of my mother being an active figure in the life of our class. Baking biscuits, presenting bouquets and gifts to the teacher, doing it with a heartfelt speech on behalf of the parents’ committee, which she would chair, of course. The object of these passionate longings of mine, however, was a parent-log. A parent-log of the Thick-Skinned-Rhino star sign. Sorry, I meant the Thick-Skinned-Capricorn star sign. Otherwise the eternal life and soul of every party, as soon as she set foot in my school, this parent turned into an extreme introvert. She went to extraordinary lengths to snuff out the first sparks of any communication. And all because, in her own words, “she couldn’t stand pushy mums”.
Ooh, just wait till I grow up, I vowed – I’ll be the pushiest mum in my children’s class!
But while at the age of 8 Leadership-Among-the-Mums-in-My-Future-Children’s-Class was life priority number 1, by the time I became the mother of two school-age children, it turned out I’d become my own mother. And quite a bit worse than her, as you’ll find out by the end of this opus. At least she just kept quiet, without making a fool of herself.
In the first 4 years of my younger son’s school life, I had two involvements in the life of the class.
The first was at a parents’ evening. Everyone knows that at parents’ evenings you learn a great many things, such as all the administrative and financial needs of the school. About your child you learn nothing. But you do become aware that there are always 1–2 mums battling for Total Supremacy in the class. There are also 3–4 others who are very active and nimble on organisational matters. They rank below the mums battling for total supremacy, without whose approval nothing can happen, but they’re still more influential than all the rest of us, the mere mortal mums.
The parents’ evening in question opened with drama. A mum whose child doesn’t attend the after-school club grumbles that she has to pay 2 leva more for meals than the children who do.
Her argument is that “it’s not about the bit of money, it’s about the principle”. This reinforces my long-standing suspicion that whenever someone mixes money and principles in one sentence, especially if instead of “money” they say “a bit of money”, it’s entirely about the money.
The teacher pulls out the regulations and reads the paragraph legalising this injustice. It turns out that if you pick your child up at lunchtime, they can have lunch at home, whereas the children who are at school all day have no choice for lunch other than the canteen. That’s why they get a discount.
“Then,” says the principled mum, “all the mums whose children are at school all day should show solidarity and give up the discount – they ought to be able to afford it. Let’s not forget that they did, after all, choose their careers over their children…”
Up to this point I’m bored, but here my ears prick up. I admit that my hackles rise when a non-working woman needles a working woman with the moral verdict that, since she has chosen to work, she clearly doesn’t care about her child and must absolutely suffer some sort of punishment. At times like that I want to wring someone’s pseudo-perfect-parent neck. But it doesn’t become a mum as utterly inactive on the class’s burning issues as me to suddenly start having opinions and demands, so again I keep quiet.
The time comes for transparency and accountability. The teacher pulls out a list of the money spent last year. The adrenaline I’d worked up a moment ago settles, and the sing-song listing of the following expenses lulls me into a blissful doze:
“Rulers 21.00 leva, rubbers 18 leva, document pockets 8.40, wet wipes in the big packs 24.00, dry tissues (two-ply) 13.40, paper clips 3.18, stapler 5.20, red and white yarn for martenitsi 16.50, protractors 8.16 (we got them at a big discount in a bundle with the rulers), disinfectants – 120 leva, …… The report ends with lengthy musings on where a missing 1.84 might have got to, as well as the remorseful teacher’s offer to make it up out of her own pocket. I wake up in time to take part in our magnanimous forgiveness of the sum. Now I’m hungry.
The good news is that there’s light at the end of the tunnel. I know we’re approaching the last and most important item on the agenda – collecting funds for the new school year.
According to the teacher, 30 leva each for the school board + 30 leva for supplies is perfectly enough. I have 70 leva in my purse. Let’s hope no mum turns up with fresh ideas for more spending.
Generally speaking, mums with one child are the most dangerous in situations like this – they’re full of energy and enthusiasm to make the school a better place, not only for their own children but even for ours. On their initiative we’re always investing – now in an “additional insurance for the children” fund, now in a “let’s buy new lockers for the classroom, because these are badly scratched” fund. Those of us with two children keep quiet. The second child has cured us of enthusiasm, and all we want is for everything to be over, to pay and go home. Oh, and to have enough cash to pay.
And the mums with three or more children (yes, there are some) are already backing out of the room as invisibly as possible. They’ve got to pay at two more parents’ evenings, which they’re already late for. I, however, keep thinking that this time there’s nothing left to come up with – in previous years we bought new lockers, a dad volunteered to repaint the classroom for free, we’ve got educational boards – there’s simply NOTHING left to dream up an extra collection for.
But one pest with one child has already raised her hand. She suggests that, to make things easier for us during the year, we pay in advance for all the educational theatre shows the children will go to. Now how did she manage to think that one up! And why?? Is she sucking up to the teacher??? Another 20 leva. Damn it! Now I owe 80 leva, and I’ve only got 70.
Which means that tomorrow I’ll have to go to the workplace of the mum who collects the money to give her the remaining 10 leva. And that, in turn, means that so as not to be too late for my own work tomorrow, I’ll have to skip my morning run. I may not have many principles in this world, but one of my few is training in the morning before work! I’m so determined to stand up for my principles that I do the unthinkable:
I RAISE MY HAND! ……When most of the mums hear my voice for the first time in their lives, it says:
- “I propose we collect 10 leva each for the theatre, not 20!”
- “But how? The theatre costs 20 leva for 4 shows over the whole year.”
I’ve come prepared, though. “I can’t know now, for a whole year ahead, whether my child will be healthy and in class every time there’s a theatre show. Let’s pay 10 leva each, and if the child attends all the shows, we’ll pay the extra on the day before the show.”
The mum who proposed paying in advance has quashed rebellions by ants like me before. She knows what to say to put other mums off joining my insubordination:
“Well, of course! Not everyone can afford to pay such a large sum in one go!” – the mum’s voice oozes something greasy that’s supposed to sound like caring nobility. “We have to take the parents’ social situation into account. Look, Nikola’s mum clearly has a very modest budget.” She looks me up and down. She’s searching my appearance for evidence of my modest budget. I’ve evidently passed the inspection, as I hear:
“Let’s make an exception for Nikola’s mum and vote on instalments for her ‘case’? We’re only human, after all!” She adds, “Would any other mum like to join Nikola’s mum and have instalments voted for her too?” I look hopefully at the mum who raised the question of the 2 leva a week for meal vouchers. I’m hoping she’ll join me so I won’t be alone. After all, it’s about a bit of money – a cause I thought was close to her heart.
But the mum in question carefully avoids my gaze. She doesn’t want to join the newly founded Little-Band-of-Financially-Unstable-Mums, led by me – its only member. The mums vote to put my obligations on instalments.
“Thank you!” I say, though that’s not exactly what I mean, and so ends my first and only live involvement in parent life.
My second is digital – on Viber, during online learning in 2020. In the class group we exchanged useful information such as countless pictures for the Annunciation, Palm Sunday and Easter.
The online space is dominated by the same mums who lead us in the physical world. They carry on battling for the titles of “most competent on every issue”, “best informed about the class’s affairs” and “mum closest to the teacher”. Statements from the Ministry of Education, passages from the school rules and so on are quoted. Those who can’t shine in this sphere make up for it with photos of their offspring having lunch, with captions like: “And we’ve already done our studying and now we’re having a nourishing meatball soup. Enjoy your meal, everyone, and have a wonderful day.”
In addition to the usual suspects, on Viber we’ve got a new activist too. Our very own Daddy Emo. He’s a GDPR specialist, and every time the parents’ group starts interpreting some new regulation, Emo manages to steer the conversation round to GDPR and shine. Even the most outspoken Mums fall silent before his might. Emo is in his element and proud that he has logged some activity on behalf of the family. Good thing he’s there – he wags an admonishing finger at me – because I always keep quiet in the groups. Unlike at home, where my mouth is open THIS wide.
“Why don’t you join in some group chat? Am I the only one who’s going to save the family’s face in all the Viber groups?” (Besides the class group, Emo has also added me, to sit silent as a log, to our block’s group, where we’re collecting money to repair the roof.)
Well, be careful what you wish for, Emo.
One day Emo and I had fallen out. The night before, he’d wanted to immortalise the fulfilment of our marital duties in a home video. I didn’t like the idea from the start; it looked to me like potential blackmail material. But he made things even worse by trying to convince me that this was my chance to show how films like that can be interesting, with a well-thought-out script and, above all, a powerfully performed female lead. I want to be a writer after all, don’t I, he coaxed. I supposedly studied acting, didn’t I, he reminded me. (This relates to my claims that the scripts of adult films are usually weak, the dialogue predictable, and the actresses unconvincing because they’re bored.)
Very wrong approach! For us creatives, it’s extremely important that others find us super successful. Especially when it’s obvious to everyone that we’re unfulfilled. If Emo is hinting to me that my only fulfilment as an actress and screenwriter is to star in his home video, he’s very much mistaken! “Ohhh, doesn’t he remember how in 2003 I was in an advert for sweets! Why is he pretending not to know I’ve got 3,000 monthly visitors to the site with my blogs… true, only when I run a paid ad, but still…. Off you go to the left, Emil!!!” – I’m not sure what exactly “off to the left” means, but it sounds to me like something you say to a person you want to get rid of. I turn over to the right and pull the duvet towards me. The whole thing.
The next day Emo has left early for work. When I wake up well rested in the morning, I’m always full of fresh energy and in a good mood. The new morning brings me more enthusiasm for life than a mum with one child at a parents’ evening. I feel bad about Emo. I wonder how to make it up to him. Something “soft”, but still showing a willingness to communicate. Before getting dressed for work, I take a selfie in my underwear. I send it to Emo on Viber.
I only find out that, besides Emo, I’ve also sent the photo separately to the parents’ group of class 4 “A”, when one of the other silent mums messages me privately to say she thinks I’ve got the chats mixed up. Thank God, at least we marginalised silent ones support each other. I thank her and immediately leave the class 4 “A” group. Anyway, from next year the children are being split into specialised classes, so we parents won’t be staying together in this line-up regardless.
I may not have made my childhood dream of being an active mum come true, but at least I made one of Emo’s dreams come true – his dream of me taking part in some group chat too. And when I do something – I do it with a flourish.
Meanwhile, Emo carries on working towards making his dream of a home adult video come true as well. Today we watched “Fates at a Crossroads”, which was looking at a particularly difficult case. A woman, Tanya, had lost her memory after a car crash, and three different suitors were trying to win her heart, each of them explaining to her that they’d been a couple before she lost her memory. The poor woman remembered nothing and didn’t know which one to settle on, whose words to trust. She was all at sea. She couldn’t remember which of them she’d had a 10-year relationship with. I sincerely felt poor Tanya’s pain. The bad thing was that she couldn’t make an informed decision, since none of the would-be suitors could back up their claims with evidence.
We all know that Emo is a man who has a solution for everything. He had a solution for Tanya’s problem too:
“If Tanya had made a home adult video with her husband, she could watch it now and know who she’d been with! Serves her right for not thinking ahead – let her suffer now,” he gives me a meaningful look. “You women never think about these things.”
