When I look back now, my parents knew fuck all about my GCSEs. Like, literally nothing—what my predicted grades were, the subjects I had chosen, or the dates of my exams. This wasn’t only because I was the youngest of five and they had basically given up. They just had one clear instruction: you better pass your exams. That was it—we were very much expected to get on with it.
Roll forward to me with my kids. My son had his GCSEs this year, and I became his personal bitch-arse slave. This was in addition to my other duties as baseline mum-bitch, work-bitch, and wife-bitch. This doesn’t even include the sister and daughter bitch-work I do as a hobby.
At the beginning of the GCSEs, I sat down with him to set the scene—aka how much of his bitch I would be. We agreed to the following:
- No housework while he was on exam leave and during his exams.
- If he had a morning exam, I would wake up and cook him a hearty breakfast.
- I would make tea and drinks on demand.
- I would ensure he had a stash of his favourite snacks and keep them stocked up.
- If he had a morning exam, either my husband or I would drop him at the station.
He agreed (of course he did!) and so did my husband (of course he fucking did!).
Flashback to my GCSE days. We had to do most of our revision at the kitchen table until the 9pm watershed with our backs to the TV. Then I would have to go to my bedroom. My room was what is often referred to as a box room—it had a single bed, a chest of drawers, and a laundry basket. This left very little floor space. There was no desk, so my study options were the floor or the bed.
If, while I was revising at the dining table, I paused to contemplate or even slightly averted my gaze from my books, my mum would be on me.
“So you have time to look around like a bandar (monkey)? Then you have time to do housework.”
The next thing I knew, I would have a can of Mr Sheen in one hand, and in the other, the infamous yellow cloth would appear.
If there was a function at the weekend—a “family party”—there was no choice but to go and take my books with me. I would find a corner and get my head down. There would be hell to pay if I complained that this was messing with my revision schedule.
My mum would say:
“I saw you at the party—you only looked at your books once! If you really wanted to study, you could study anywhere. Your problem is that you don’t want to study. If you don’t want to study, you can just go and get married and end up like me! If you study or don’t study, it’s up to you—it will only benefit you. What am I going to get out of it?”
Fuck’s sake.
My son’s GCSEs started off at a major supermarket, where I spent about £50 on snacks ranging from Ella’s Kitchen fruit pouches to nine packs of Double Deckers.
Mental note: must remember to book him a dentist appointment straight after his last exam.
His room became wrapper heaven, with clothes strewn everywhere and notes covering every surface. His bathroom looked worse—so much worse—and it fucking stank.
I was like the ladybird that never said a word. My inner monologue, however, was going fucking crazy.
While he was out of his room, I would clean, polish, tidy, change bedsheets, and hope to God that the sticky items stuck to the carpet were snacks and not liquid anger and frustration. I would clean his bathroom and ensure he had clean laundry.
While he was revising, I would make him flapjacks, popcorn, endless cups of tea, and give him lots and lots of cuddles. Most of all, I tried my very best not to lose my shit. I was exhausted. I did lose my shit one and a half times.
Then it got to exam time—time for my husband’s part to kick in. We only have one car, so taking my son to morning exams was a task we could share. We could have shared more, but this was a low bar.
The first three morning exam days went fine.
Then, on the first day my son had a double exam, my husband decided he wanted to take the car. No problem—take the car, drop the boy, and go to the office.
No—he wanted to wake up, take the car, go for a swim, and then be in the office by 8am.
What the actual fuck?
We had agreed on this!
I waited until the evening to talk about it.
I said, “Well, you might not be able to do what you want—we agreed that we would take him to the station if he had a morning exam.”
I suggested he go to work early by public transport and forgo his swim.
For context, my husband’s office is closer to the house than my son’s school. The journeys are very similar, but my husband would get off the train two stops earlier.
He looked at me.
“That wouldn’t work—I want the car.”
I reiterated our agreement.
He said, “Well, I have been doing it.”
True. But we hadn’t quite finished yet. He went to the gym in the morning and then into the office with the car.
I woke up early, made my son breakfast, and then tracked him on Find My iPhone to ensure he got to school in time. There was zero guilt on my husband’s side.
Is this what male privilege looks like? I don’t know, but the nonchalance still grates on me.
The rest of the exams came and went. His last exam was on a Thursday, and on Friday morning, he would be going to DofE.
I agreed to pack and arrange everything for his Duke of Edinburgh trip. I asked him what he had agreed to take as part of his group.
He told me, “Vibes.”
Fuck—where can I buy that from?
So I created a WhatsApp group with all the other parents.
In case you’re wondering, the group was all the mums.
The dads’ duties finish once the semen has left their body, it seems.
I just packed all the group items myself. I stated in the chat that I packed it all with my son so the others wouldn’t need to worry.
One of the mums piped up:
“You shouldn’t really be organising anything—your son should do it all himself.”
Yes, I agree. However, today was Thursday, he had done fuck all, and the train left at 7:07am on Friday morning.
I had paid nearly £150 for his non-refundable train fare.
When my son came back, I found out that this lady’s son had brought nothing with him and had got by on the strength of the team.
Yes—you’re fucking welcome.
Leave a Reply