I went to a party recently. It was a most excellent party, hosted by a good friend of mine who has made most excellent parties an artform.
Whilst the evening was exceptional for many different reasons, what stood out for me was a question that came up time and time again and it was this:
so what are you?
I found myself stumped. My powers of speech a little dulled by a few Proseccos, I wanted to give a two word answer like bar maid, fire fighter or beach lifeguard but as I opened my mouth, I would instead take a sip of wine, make some indistinguishable noises under the thumping tunes and pass the breadsticks.
I suppose I could have said that I was a FTM (full time Mummy) – a possible contender for job title but this had to be viewed in light of one of the best quotes of the evening. This came from a gorgeous forty something, in what she confirmed was a Westwood frock: and it was the kind of crisp, elegantly designed affair that would sit next to the word ‘frock’ in a picture dictionary. She exclaimed, to much hilarity ‘how very middle class Mummy we all are – dancing at the Aga!’ We were all indeed, dancing at the Aga, using the towel rail as a pole albeit vertical rather than horizontal. The delightful frock, she informed us, had been acquired on Ebay, showing a remarkable sense of thrift, we all thought before someone picked a bottle of Prosecco off the walnut wood topped kitchen island and passed it around. We drank up and laughed some more. (I’ve got my fraudery off to perfection in such situations: the kind of social gatherings I was used to as a child involved worn sofas, ashtrays and sugary, dark tea in chipped mugs but the tourist in me smiled, quite genuinely.)
But it made me think: am I a full time Mum? Whilst I’m a dab hand at knocking out afterschool cake and end-of-the-month curry, I no longer dedicate every waking moment, nor the greater part of my intellectual or physical energy to my family – or at least not to the same extent I did when my children were babies. Is that what full time Mummies do? Even of older children? It’s all so very confusing.
I could have said that I’m a community worker. I’ve always had a firm belief that the early years are pivotal in a person’s life, so when the opportunity arose to help manage a local toddler group, I took it up. I had no idea that I would still be running it two years after my youngest was in full time school but it has secured me at the centre of a community and has supported the development of many children and their adults.
But is that the sum of what I do?
Could I have passed myself off as a writer? I write this blog, for example, I write for my friend’s charity website and I have, over many years, written all kinds of material from press releases to planning applications. I have somewhat of a talent for panning for information on the internet and although this has been part of what I’ve been employed to do in the past, I’ve never had a doohickie on my desk that says ‘writer’ and I don’t have a book in Waterstones. I must also confess that I was intimidated by the sheer weight of professional writing talent in the room at the time but does the exchange of coins for words a writer make?
So, back to my party. What did I say?
I waffled a little about my friend’s charity website. It is an important cause, so I was happy to promote it. I spoke of my children and of my blog but I had no title to give: no embossed words for a business card.
It was the following morning, dragging my hung-over body to the local shop for toilet paper (in fine form, my friend had taken better care of ensuring a healthy supply of mixers than ensuring a good stock of this very essential of essentials), when I spotted by the side of the pavement a few mushrooms growing in some gravel. They were tiny, grey and inconspicuous against the stones but in my daze, they stood out. They were the answer I had been looking for and it was all to do with the contrasting palates of colour.
It was a mild October morning and all around, fallen leaves littered the path: rich, decaying ochres, warm and mushy like pumpkin stew with barley and spice. But here, nestled against a fence and no doubt ignored by every other footfall were neutral, silent, simple tones: there was something very peaceful and restorative about them after such a dazzling night of stars. And I felt happy to have encountered such a secret joy in such a public place: the buzzing traffic and the plugged in joggers had no idea what was at their feet.
And this is what I am: I am the Queen of Small Things – this is the shoe that fits. I delight in the achievements of my friends, applaud those who climb ladders and celebrate the people who smash glass ceilings but I’ve been round long enough now to know that my pleasure lies in the small things because I own that pleasure like a secret: it is mine. I have given myself permission to be happy with what I have.
So, next time I’m asked about the nature of what I am over a glass of bubbly, I may simply speak of small mushrooms and autumn leaves
– that’s only if I’m not too busy dancing at the Aga.
