I am the kind of woman that a Mother would hate for her son to bring home. 

I smoke too much, can drink most men under the table, bite my fingernails until they're numb and most days leave the house, bra-less. Ironically enough my Mother named me Mary. When I was young and insecure she used to love telling me about the meaning of my name, talking often of its Hebrew origin, and its meaning:

“The perfect one”

The Perfect one?  Three words have never been so untrue. Throughout school and even back in the old college days I was always told that I don’t “look like a Mary” and have often thought back to the people that said this and come to the conclusion that by their statements about my name they were implying I did not act like a Mary either. According to the Catholics around me, this Mary was far from perfect...

I attended an all girls convent for two years, until I was excluded. I still maintain to this very day that my head butting Anita James was purely an act of self defence- even if she was on crutches at the time. At the age of thirty something I will happily admit to you that I am far from perfect, I am no virgin, and I am not the Mother of God, but in fact of a five year old tearaway who does not perform miracles and the only thing “holy” about him is the sleeves of his coat he keeps chewing on.

I did a lot of research before I named my son. I really wanted his name to have a significant meaning, a meaning and nature which unlike mine, he could live up to. I chose “Aaron” also a biblical name; however that is not the reason I chose it. Aaron means “mountain of strength” and i knew, in my heart, that is exactly what my son would have to be, after all he would have me as a Mother.

Every New Year that creeps up on me, I scrawl in the front of my diary a list of the antics I will avoid, and of the goals I want to achieve, the things I will successfully accomplish. My alcohol intake is usually top of the list, and was most defiantly the number one “will not” this year, after my darling Son’s announcement to his class that his Mummy shaves her armpits over the kitchen sink because the one in the bathroom has “sick sick” in it.

I am not going to lie and tell you that this event did not occur, because indeed it did. It had been my little sister’s engagement party the night before, and a friend had looked after Aaron for the night. A lot of people think I allowed myself to get completely wasted because I got so carried away celebrating my sister’s good news, my sister’s new happiness. Yet, the real reason I mixed spirits with shots and Alco-pops with cocktails was because I was jealous, depressed and wanted an accountant to sweep me off my flat feet, sweep, seize me off my feet, and of course be so blinded by love he would not notice the un-painted toenails or my bunions.

Although I am not religious, I do not lead the life of a criminal. I am not a corrupt person, I do not do drugs and contrary to popular belief I am not an alcoholic. I seem to attract trouble. It’s a quality I have always had.  Maybe if I, like my Mother and Grandmother had been a dedicated Catholic my life would not be spiralling out of control.

Religion and I were never meant to be .Certainly not a match made in ‘Heaven’.

 I tried, Oh I tried to get close to the religious world, but it always got thrown back in my face. When I found out I was expecting my first child, I told my mother I had no idea how it happened. She looked at me, with the most sarcastic of faces, you know the type, eyebrow raised lips sloping to one side, and said: “Mary, I think you are taking your names origin a bit too seriously, not all Mary’s become miraculously pregnant. Of course you know how it happened”

Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, it was at that moment I ignorantly decided that I would create my own religion. OK! Magazine would be my bible, Sainsbury’s Vodka the blood of Christ, and cream cakes his body. It soon appeared I, unlike Jesus did not have many followers. The only people in plain clothing, with beards following me were the women from social services.

They bearded women from the social service never took Aaron away, they did not have a leg to stand on, however after Mr Jones was informed my bathroom is covered in 'sick sick,' he wrote to me explaining it was his duty as a teacher to look out for Aarons well being, that is why he took it upon himself to contact the social. What a load of old shit. I’m telling you, these teachers get a little taste of power and suddenly think they’re Gordon Ramsey, creating all sorts of concoctions, throwing all sorts into the works. Well, Sorry Mr Jones, my life has enough spice.

I worked behind a bar for a while, in a hotel. I took food and drink orders. Worked days and nights. it was just my luck that social services turned up just as I was about to be sacked. It had been one of those days, I was tired, stressed and the circumference of my thighs had in fact grown, the new diet was not working. Kelsey was eighteen years old; behind the bar she was not too confident always asking questions making sure she was doing everything right.  I always had time for her; however on a Friday evening when I was rushed off my feet, she felt the sharpness of my pierced tongue.

“Mary” she had called, “this customer would like to know what the alternative to the house wine is”

Without looking up from my position on the floor stacking the fridge, I replied, way too loud

“I don’t know, perhaps a punch in the face?”

My Boss heard this, and so did the women with the beards who had been drinking fruit juice in the far corner. Spying. I was, let’s say dismissed.  Told I had an attitude problem, and a big bum. I remember the walk home, I chain smoked. A cigarette in one hand, a portion of chips in the other. A whole quid’s worth of heaven. 

As I walked I thought about some of the things that I should have added to the “will not” list. I should have added, right at the top, in the biggest boldest of lettering “I will not get pregnant again” and underneath that “I will not lose my job “however, considering it is nearly Christmas and I am two months pregnant without a job I have decided that lists and expectations are the work of the devil, and it is about time I turn my life around. I, Mary Veronica Williams have decided to leave the old life, to leave my house, my ways of life put a bra on and search for God.

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