Motherhood has given me two kids and a TV show (and a spin-off). When I first entered Motherland, it was quite clear this was a mad world, and ripe for the picking. Trying to find your tribe when you have absolutely nothing in common with your fellow tribespeople, other than babies of the same age, is very difficult, but also rich in inspiration for comedy.
Over the years, I would write down little moments or observations that made me chuckle: arriving at a kids’ party dressed exactly like one of the dads; watching in amazement as a mum asked an usher to turn the heating up in the auditorium on a school trip to see The Lion King; the mum whose advice to her children if they got lost in a crowd was “think like a paedophile” (we used this – with permission – in the Halloween episode of Motherland).
My document of observations grew into the TV programme Motherland, and, more recently, Amandaland. But now my little inspos have left, and I don’t know what to do with myself. They both started uni last week (at opposite ends of the country). I was dreading this moment, and as a single mum I’m finding it unbearable. The house is so quiet. The kitchen is permanently clean and there are no trip hazards in the hallway. Both gone. Two for none. It’s so sad.
My daughter was the first to go. It was a slick operation. Three hours down the M11 and M25 with her hijacking the music and whacking me every time she saw a yellow car. We had a time slot to collect her keys and between the two of us we lugged her stuff up a couple of flights of stairs to her new home; a 6.5-sq metre room with the basics: a desk, chair, bed, storage and noticeboard (no drawing pins). It was quite clean apart from a Cheerio I found in the wardrobe. After I used all my God-given strength to get the single sheet to fit her small double mattress (I should have checked this) and unpacked an awful lot of my clothes and makeup that she had pilfered from my bedroom, it was time to say goodbye. The sight of her walking away (in my boots) hit me in the stomach.
A week later, it was five hours up the M6 with an overnight stop in a fully booked budget hotel bursting with emotional families on the same path. Campus was rammed with packed cars full of duvets, air fryers and anxious students desperately trying to hide their nerves. I hadn’t learned my lesson from the previous week and almost passed out, straining like I was in labour to get another single sheet over another small double mattress. Also forgot drawing pins. I didn’t want to cramp my son’s style by hanging around, saying hello to his neighbours, so we had a solid hug and I managed to sneak in a kiss on his cheek without inflicting any embarrassment on him whatsoever. He waved, then disappeared into his building, jangling his keys like he’d just bought his first house.
As I drove off, there were a bunch of students holding banners from their various societies that said things like BEEP FOR NETBALL and HONK FOR WATERSPORTS, so I honked and they cheered and I cried for most of the five-hour drive home with nobody to pass me a salt and vinegar Disco.
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When I got home, my eyes had dried up. I felt utterly bereft, then I switched on the hall light and the bulb popped out of the socket and the cat ran in and puked up a tiny snout and a tail. I walked the dog to the pharmacy today to collect my son’s backup EpiPen for his lobster allergy. (Though I’m quite sure he’ll manage to avoid lobster for the next few years.) The walk took me past the kids’ old primary school. The sound of the little children playing in the playground started me off again and I had to dig deep to control my lip wobble as I said my son’s name, collecting his prescription.
I owe so much to my children. Motherland wouldn’t exist without them. In our first Motherland Christmas special, Kevin is testing Minecraft (pronounced Mein-Kraft) to see if it’s suitable for his girls. I got most of his dialogue from my son and his experience of having his homestead set on fire and his pigs stolen by his so-called friend. I’m hoping this next chapter of parenting will deliver another wave of anecdotes I can use in my writing, although it seems the world goes quiet. The mums sign up for upholstery courses while the dads have their midlife crises.
Apparently, Gordon Ramsay wore his son’s underpants after he dropped him off for the first time. I am sad but I think I’m fine not wearing my kids’ underwear. There are support groups and counsellors that specialise in empty nest syndrome but instead I’ve signed up for netball on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I’m going to have a good old sort-out of the house ready for when they’re back for Christmas. Let’s hope they bring home lots of material!
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