Page 9 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
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I’ve often debated why sizes are labelled to reflectactualsize. I know I’m large. I’ve just had a baby and we’ve stretched my body to its capacityandtripled my boob size. But large is a word you use to describe houses, elephants, the biggest thing on the fast-food menu. So my suggestion is that why don’t we describe all sizes by standardised superlative adjectives instead? I’m not Small, I’m Fantastic. And I’m not Large. I’m Fabulous. And when I’m Extra Large, I’m Extra Fabulous. And why do they put the bigger sizes on the lowest shelves? Why am I on all fours like a sweaty dog scouring shelves and trying to work out which one of these black T-shirts will fit across my gargantuan bosoms? I think I might fit one of my boobs into a Small. Stretch is good but it will be revealing. It’ll cling to my many guts. I move across to a ‘slouchy’ style, except it’s a vest with a strange crochet back which will show off my mammoth nursing bra. I look across the rails, at a bigger one which is practically a dress. Yes. I take it off the rails but then see it has a giant Mickey Mouse on the front. I can’t get away with that anymore, can I? So maybe I go for the original stretch T-shirt in XL. Though if I wear these T-shirts with black leggings then with my pale face and lack of ability to make conversation, I’ll look like a mime artist.
I keep strolling along to the knicker section. My beloved minis have not been my friend recently so I look at what’s available. Do I go full support pants that kind of look like cycling shorts? It’s the summer– that will be sweaty crack territory. I opt for a multipack of boyfriend shorts. Are these sexy? No. How big do I go? I don’t want a baggy knicker but then I don’t want the elastic to cut off my circulation either or for them to leave grid line indentations across my butt cheeks. I laugh out loud at the thongs, thinking about a piece of string devoured by a couple of sizeable burger buns.
I’m supposed to be here to buy some babygros for Joe, who seems to be getting bigger at the rate of knots. However, my quick in and out has caught me being sucked into trying to also sort my dire clothes situation. I am at that in between stage where none of my old skinny jeans go past my thighs, and I can’t really wear maternity clothes anymore, which is a shame because an added stretchy waistband to a jean is what the world is missing. I also thought it might cheer me up. Obviously, it hasn’t. To feel better, I throw some socks into my bag. At least I haven’t got fat feet. I also throw in a cotton tote bag, a two-pack of leggings and a multipack of stud earrings. Joe looks worried for me. He wriggles in his pram. This store always seems to be warm, no matter the season. I pick him up, his back and head all matted and sweaty, and throw the basket into his seat, doing the impossible move of trying to push, steer and pacify at the same time. I watch as the sales assistant notices me knocking a row of bargain flip flops from their rack. I’m not even going on holiday this year but I throw some of those in. And a hairbrush.
‘What else shall we get?’ I ask Joe.
Nothing?his eyes tell me.A ticket out of here?I suddenly hear my phone ring. I search for it in my cavernous bag, jiggling with Joe on the spot. Lord. Does she really have to call now?
‘Mum. How are you?’
‘You sound tired.’
‘I am tired.’
‘Are you out?’
‘I’m just grabbing some shopping and a tea.’
‘Not caffeine. That’s why Joe’s not sleeping because he’s essentially just drinking tea.’
I also ate half a packet of Bourbon biscuits before I came out. That would be a perfect cocktail-flavoured drink.
‘Try that camomile stuff I gave you.’
‘I will, Mum.’ I won’t.
‘And when are you next coming round? I want hugs. I could come to you?’
‘No! Don’t do that…’
There’s a toss-up here of what’s the lesser of two evils. Do I haul my arse all the way over to hers on two buses or do I let her come to my place and judge my lack of tidiness? Usually the first thing she does is locate a hoover. I’d also have to clean the toilet and clear the fridge of septic vegetables. There is a pause where I can tell she’s wondering whether to be offended.
‘I’ll try and pop by next week? Maybe?’ I say, trying to be as vague as possible.
‘Good. Your father will be happy. Won’t you?’ she says to Dad.
I smile because he’s most likely sitting in his armchair nodding along but not processing the conversation.
‘How is Dad?’
‘He’s marking. He’s also tired, he taught this morning.’
I would doubt he’s as hellishly tired as myself, but depends on the year group. This is the one thing I have in common with my folks. I was the only sister who followed both parents into their chosen profession of teaching. I’ve never been quite sure why. It didn’t feel like a calling, more like a career I stumbled into.
‘Ask for help too. I can look after Joe any time, you know that. Except Mondays because that’s when I’m in full time,’ Mum carries on. ‘They started another psychology A-level group.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Classic case of dossers using my subject to fill a gap. That’s why they give them to me so I’ll snap them into shape.’
She is the sort of teacher people will talk about in years to come as part of the horror story that was their secondary education. She likes kids tomaximisetheir potential. It’s what she’s been wishing for her daughters for years.
