Fiona Gibson - Mum on the Run

FIONA GIBSON

Mum On The Run

For dearest Jen and Kath for all the laughs

Contents

Thank you, everyone, for coming along to our Spring into Fitness sports day. Now, to round off our afternoon, its the race weve all been waiting for...

No its not. Its the race that makes me consider feigning illness or death.

... Its the mums race! exclaims Miss Marshall, my childrens head teacher. She scans the gaggle of parents loitering on the fringes of the football pitch.

Go on, Mum! Grace hisses, giving me a shove.

I smile vaguely while trying to formulate a speedy excuse. Not today, hon. I, um... dont feel too well actually.

Whats wrong with you?

I... I think Ive done something to my... ligament.

Grace scowls, flicking back a spiral of toffee-coloured hair thats escaped from her ponytail. Whats a ligament?

Its, er... My mind empties of all logical thought. This happens when Im under stress, like when a client blanches after Ive cut in layers even though shes asked for layers and insists that what she really had in mind for her ginger puffball was something, yknow, long and flowing, kinda Cheryl Cole-ish...

Its in your leg, I tell Grace firmly.

What happened to it? Her dark brown eyes narrow with suspicion.

I... I dont know, hon, but its felt weird all day. I must have pulled it or stretched it or something.

She sighs deeply. At seven years old, rangy and tall for her age, Grace is sporting a mud-splattered polo shirt festooned with rosettes from winning the relay, the three-legged race and the egg-and-spoon. Im wearing ancient jeans and a loose, previously black top which has faded to a chalky grey. Comfy clothing to conceal the horrors beneath.

Come on, all you brave ladies! cries Miss Marshall, clapping her hands together. Here they go: Sally Miggins, casting a rueful grin as she canters lightly towards the starting line. Pippa Fletch, who happens to be wearing like most of the mums, I now realise clothes which would certainly pass as everyday attire (T-shirts, trackie bottoms) but are suspiciously easy to run in. No one would show up at Spring into Fitness in serious running gear. That would be far too obvious. The aim is to look like you hadnt even realised thered be a mums race when youve been secretly training for months.

Come on, Laura, Beth cajoles, tugging my arm. Itll be fun.

No it wont, I reply with a dry laugh. Beth, the first friend I made on the mum circuit around here, is athletic and startlingly pretty, even with hair casually pulled back and without a scrap of make-up. I was presentable too, back in the Iron Age, before I acquired a husband, three children and a worrying habit of hoovering up my childrens leftovers. Waste not, want not, I always say.

Oh, dont be a spoilsport, Beth teases. Its only to the end of the field. Itll all be over in about twenty seconds.

Yeah, you promised, Mum, Grace declares.

I cant, Grace. Even if I was feeling okay, which Im not with this ligament thing, Im wearing the wrong shoes for running.

Beth glances down at my cork-soled wedges. Good point, she sniggers. Ill let you off... this time. But next time you forget your kit Ill be sending a note home.

Yes, Miss, I snigger. Beth grins and strides off towards the starting line.

Take them off, Grace growls.

What? I cant run in bare feet! I might step on something like broken glass or poo or...

No you wont. Its just grass, Mum. Nice soft grass.

Grace, please stop nagging...

Amys mums taken her shoes off. Look. Grace points towards the cluster of super-fit mums, all laughing and limbering up as if this is something one might do for pleasure. Sure enough, Sophie Clarke has tossed aside her sandals and is performing professional-looking leg stretches on the damp turf.

Any more mums keen to join in? Miss Marshall calls out hopefully. A trim thirty-something, she exudes kindness and capability. She manages to look after 270 children, five days a week. I find it an almighty challenge to raise three. I am in awe of her.

Anyway, I didnt promise, I add. I said I might...

You did! You said at breakfast.

Hell, shes right. She and Toby were bickering over the last Rice Krispies, despite the fact that our kitchen cupboard contains around thirty-two alternative cereal varieties. If you stop arguing, Id told her, Ill do the mums race today. Shed whooped and kissed me noisily on the cheek. Its okay, Id reassured myself on the way to school and nursery. Shell forget.

Id forgotten that children never forget, unless its con nected to teeth cleaning. I know, too, that Im a constant disappointment to her, making promises I cant keep. Pathetic mother with her colossal bra, non-matching knickers and carrying far too many souvenirs of her last pregnancy (stretch marks, wobbly tum), especially considering the fact that Toby is now four years old.

Across the field, Finn, my eldest, is sitting on a plastic chair between his best friends Calum and James. He, like Grace, is of athletic build: lanky with well-defined arms from drumming, and strong legs from playing football in his dads junior team every Sunday. Toby too exhibits signs of sporting prowess. Only this morning he bowled my powder compact across the bathroom and into the loo where it landed with a splash. Shame theres no medal for that. And he denied responsibility. Told me that Ted, his hygienically-challenged cuddly, had done it.

Finn glances at me, then at the clump of mums all eagerly poised at the starting line. While Grace is desperate for me to do this, I know hes praying I wont. I dont want to aggravate things between us even further. At eleven years old, he has become sullen and distant these past few months, and seems desperate for puberty to kick off big-time. Yesterday, I heard him bragging to James in his room that hed discovered a solitary hair on his testicles. Other recent acquisitions are a can of Lynx and a tube of supposedly miracle spot cream.

Mummy, Grace barks into my ear, everyones doing it except you.

No theyre not, I retort. Look at those two ladies over there. Hovering close to the fence is a woman whos so hugely pregnant she could quite feasibly go into labour at any moment, and a lady of around 107 in a beige coat and transparent plastic rain hat. Theyre quite happy to watch, I add. Not everyones madly competitive, Grace.

Her eyes cloud, and her lightly-freckled cheeks flush with annoyance. Come on, Laura, shake a leg! trills latecomer Naomi Carrington. Naomi is wearing running gear. Tight, bubblegum-pink racing-back top, plus even tighter black Spandex shorts which hug her taut, shapely bottom like cling film, as if this were the sodding Commonwealth games. Her breasts jut out, firm and pointy like meringues, and she swigs from a bottle of sports drink. Im really unfit too, she adds. Havent trained since last years Scarborough 10k. Mind you, I managed forty-nine minutes. Thats my PB...

Whats a PB? I ask.

Personal best. Fastest-ever time. She throws me a you are a moron look. I know, not exactly a world record, she chuckles, but pretty impressive for me. And Im hoping to do even better this year.

Im sure you will, I growl, feeling my lifeblood seep out through the soles of my feet. If I ever attempted a 10k, the only way Id cross the finishing line would be in a coffin.

She grins, showing large, flat white teeth which remind me of piano keys. Naomi is the proud owner of a perfect body, the whole town knows that thanks to her stint as a life model for the Riverside Arts Society. Dazzling paintings of her luscious naked form were displayed in the Arts Centre caf for what felt like a hundred years.