He’s Not A Household Name

It is entirely possible to be traumatised by a roundabout.

“I’ve photocopied them for you,” said my mother as she handed me a few greyscale pages secured with a paperclip. I could see his face gazing at me again. He had already smiled at me from a shelf in the Spar¹. I’d blown him a kiss. He was 5246 miles away. “I’ll post copies to Sandra too,” she said. There was a sense that newspapers hadn’t yet arrived on the North Coast of County Antrim where he’d grown up but then his mum had mentioned something about seeing him on Teletext. “I’ve written her a note,” she said. “She must be so proud. I said I’m sure you never thought your little boy would grow up to do all that”. My face did not move. If only success was simply down to mothers. He’d left his and the bungalow in the middle of nowhere when he was eighteen. I hoped I’d been some sort of influence. I’d helped him navigate the big city, made a home for him to decompress in. I once cooked him a fish lasagne for dinner. He’s never forgotten it. He thought that was married life.

I was returning the Tupperware I hoped I would never inherit to the semi where I’d grown up. While her son-in-law was travelling the globe, the mother who may or may not have wished someone had validated her via a note because she wasn’t quite sure what I did, had stepped in to meet my physiological needs. Like my father choosing my younger sister as his named driver because she’s a vice-principal, she had decided my lack of title meant I was incapable of feeding my family. Because that’s what motherhood is, putting a spread on a table. I was grateful for the crustless sandwiches, the stew, the gammon, the traybakes, the three sliced sourdoughs from Lidl but the empty containers had filled the back seat of my car. I’d made a special journey to return them. I’d put her favourite pavlova plate in the dishwasher. I wasn’t sure I should do that. I was on my way to complete the school run. “Have you thought of starting a scrapbook about him?” she said as I rushed out the door.

“He's not a household name,” said the BBC News website². But on Facebook, the likes were creeping up. He only needed another three thousand to beat Delilah. The UK's oldest gorilla had just celebrated her 60th birthday at Belfast Zoo. “Excuse me. He is in this house,” I said on Instagram. “Cringe” replied the fifteen-year-old.  

We’ve been in different time zones this week. He’s had big meetings. I’ve been doing lots of little things. Households don’t run themselves. “It’s hard to figure out what time I’m on right now,” he texted. “Dublin is 10pm, San Francisco 2pm, my watch says 6pm and my iPad 3pm”. “It’s only ever laundry time for me,” I replied. 2019, the summer of the roundabout was on my mind. It was the last time I’d done this, single-handedly managed domesticity for more than two days. Their clothes seemed to have got bigger and heavier. We don’t talk about 2012 anymore.

While he was spending the whole month of June 2012 indulging in some sort of executive leadership programme in the States, I was navigating floods, headlice, chicken pox, Sports’ Days, thousands of Irish dancing festivals and the Olympic Games (I may be misremembering here but I definitely do recall holding the Olympic Torch)³.

There’s been a pandemic and a whole lot of wfh in between. I’ve got used to equal parenting, someone other than me being available at 3.30pm when there’s an Agnes or an Ophelia that prevents teenagers using their legs. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I decided I wanted to be a writer (maybe even a great one). I didn’t know the hardest bit would be finding the space to become one. “I could be better,” I said on Tuesday when I was getting up and he was going to bed, “but I just don’t have the time”. I envy men their cerebral freedom. I think about the roundabout, the two weeks circling it, exiting left on repeat, dropping them off, picking them up, how it is responsible for all I have not become. It is entirely possible to be traumatised by the hockey WhatsApp too. There is a blitz or a blah or a bleugh.

I’ve been reading all the articles about him. I’ve done the thumbs up too. It’s a beautiful story, a case study on how to do succession planning. I am ‘hashtag proud’. But I’ve mainly been looking for me, some sort of validation. My name’s not there but then there’s been no public tribute to his mother either. “I thought being your husband was the biggest job in Northern Ireland,” said someone. “We’re just a mum and a dad,” I said in June⁴. I questioned whether I was just a wife. The ‘behind every great man’ comments continue. Michelle Obama got a career, two bestsellers and an excellent wardrobe out of being a wife. We’ve communicated a lot about sleep. I’m worried about his jet lag. “How many hours did you get last night?” I ask. “Is there an app for CEOs?”. Maybe I should be responsible for managing his exercise, fresh air, breaks, diet. “Like the Tamagotchi,” I say. “You don’t like those kinds of things,” he said, “all that gush and romance and thanks”. “I know,” I said, “but could you just put a link to my Substack on your LinkedIn profile?”.

“I’ll do tea Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday,” said my mother. I thanked her and organised a system to collect it all in between spinning the whites. “I’m going to McKees⁵,” she said on the morning after he left. “I could get you a couple of pies for Thursday”. “It’s ok,” I said. “I’ve got a duck”.

It is also entirely possible to be traumatised by a duck. The hockey was nothing compared to the giblets.

“I’ve won a prize,” said the eighteen-year-old. There was a form to complete. Space was limited. She could have one ticket for one parent to watch her walk across the stage. We could draw lots. Who was her success down to? Me, her mother? Or was it both of us and neither of us and everyone else who’s ever given her a chance. “Your Dad should go,” I said. “More people will want to talk to him”.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Emily was telling her mum’s friend about being round at our house for the hockey dinner. She said, is that Deborah Sloan, the writer?”….

1. A convenience retailer, according to its website.

2. For info - https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-66894808

3. My older writing makes me cringe but this is a piece on the ‘Motherhood Penalty’ from 2021 - https://medium.com/@dj-sloan/my-husbands-career-and-the-motherhood-penalty-e751df502050

4. Just A Mum And A Dad At The End Of The Day.

5. Farm shop that sells pies.