It’s been a long, activity-crammed Saturday. I’ve played super-mum, getting everyone through their homework, ferrying to and from swimming and gymnastic lessons in between loads of uniform washing, my husband and I taking the four children shopping in Chester (why do we still do this - haven’t we learnt anything from the ten previous years of experience?) First-dinner is on the table. Second-dinner for the ones with food intolerances is in the oven. I’m pooped! I’m a firm believer in the whole family sitting down to dinner together, but like I said, I’m ready to explode. If I have to pacify one more paddier, chair one more argument, clean up one more spillage, things aren’t going to be pretty.
“I’m eating upstairs” I tell my family. “Follow me at your peril.”
When I finally close the door I feel the first hints of relief. Lying down feels amazing. Closing my eyes is more soothing than a £60 spa treatment. Maybe I won’t turn grey tonight after all.
And then come the footsteps. I hear them all the way along the stairs, all the way along the hall. The stress is beginning to nark me before the door even opens.
“Hi Mum, I’ve finished. Can I have pudding?”
I carefully iron my patience back into shape even though it drains me to do so. I manage a smile for my nine year old. “Yes. Didn’t Daddy say yes?”
“He said ask you.”
Grr. “Ok, go and get pudding. Shut the door on your way out.”
The door closes, but the fading footsteps meet ascending ones and the result is a scrap, which only I seem to be able to hear. I shout loud enough to be embarrassed next time I see our nieghbours, but apparently my husband can’t hear me either. Growling to myself I drag myself up, and with the endurance - my opinion - of a saint, play Columbo to find the most likely perpetrator and dissolve the argument.
Back horizontal behind the closed door (I want to say ‘shield’, but that implies its doing more than it is), I begin some deep breathing, forcing my heart to slow back down, refusing to entertain my internal debate over whether or not I got the right culprit. Forcing out the sounds of Round Two in the kitchen. If I keep this up, I might be recovered enough to get an assignment done in a bit. Or organise a bedroom-tidy.
Jump jump jump - the four year old. I brace myself and watch the door, my heart speeding every second he yanks at the handle, before he gets it open.
“Hi Mummy.”
I swallow and make myself smile. “Hello. Have you finished your dinner?”
He mushes his lips around. “I just want to be with youuuuu.” He opens his little arms wide.
“You need to finish your dinner”. I give him his hug and a little kiss. “What did Daddy say?”
He molds our embrace into a nestle and settles himself part next to, part on top of me. “He’s in his office. Ella’s being mean.” Pout pout.
I can’t quite bring myself to face the paddy he’ll throw if I insist he goes back, or drag myself downstairs to play Jerry Springer.
I offer another hug instead, then lean my head back and close my eyes, but only for two seconds because the door is open again.
“Mummy, d’you want to know about my story?” My seven year old’s big eyes are shy - she’s the quiet one. It would be more damaging for her than it would to the others if I said no. Although actually, I’m not sure my brain has any room left - it’s swollen to full capacity.
“K. Tell me while I shut my eyes.”
The story begins. It’s hard to concentrate over the boom of my stressed-out heart, and over the four year old’s sound effects as he brum-brums his car over my body and head.
My seven year old smiles as I respond appropriately to her story, which I know already will never have an ending - she just enjoys the attention.
I keep it up, scraping the dregs of my barrel of energy, then borrowing some more when I feel like there’s nothing left. It’s worth it. My seven year old has shining eyes and her confidence grows the more interest I show. I ask her a question, grasping the last of my patience with all my strength while my youngest repeatedly drives his car around my face.
Then it occurs to me, that the metal chassis is not in fact cold, but is wet.
I picture what else he might have run it in.
“Max - that car is dirty.” I pull it down and hold his arm against his struggles to put it back. His irritation at my restraint suddenly changes into a delighted grin. He gets his arm free (while my seven year old decides to continue her story just to compete in the dominance game her brother is pulling off), then wipes his car back and forth on his slobbered tongue. “I wet it” he sings, making the most strenuous attempts to avoid my defensive elbow.
“Mummy, Mummy, you’re not listening to my story!”
I begin to phrase something tactful to explain why my attention has been unfairly won, whilst still in the wrong position to properly fight off my little car-wielding imp.
“Mummy, it’s not fairrrrrrr!” comes a whine while my struggles go on.
“Max! Stop it! I mean....” I’m drowned out by victory screams as my cheek loses a battle with his spit.
“Mummy...” My seven year old shakes my ankle, then starts a loud, deliberate cry.
In the middle of my stress pit, I think of my husband once looking out on our garden, which we’d recently spent hours weeding, mowing, planting, beautifying... He’d been so happy with his work. And then he’d drawn his attention to our neigbour’s garden, so luscious, with thick golf-course-style lines mowed into it.
“Our grass is so awful” he’d commented. “So full of weeds. I need to get that sorted.”
I examined our neighbour’s, which did look lovely, then looked back at our grass. There was nothing awful about it to me.
“The daisies are beautiful. I want to keep them.”
And now back in the racket of a disgruntled fake-crier, an over-active sinewy mischief, and the incoming sparring knights who both want the last pancake, I can suddenly drop the stress. Scrap the assignment, this is my assignment right now. Forget the bedrooms, they’ll still be there for another day. My children need mothering, and I can see the daisies. Max just wants me to play with him after all, and I won’t have him little and cute for too many more years. Crying Harriet is easily satisfied with some cuddles and affectionate loves - perhaps that’s what she wanted all along - and I enjoy it just as much as she does. My older two respond well to my wink and the suggestion of popcorn, and their pleasure at my idea of this treat is worth hauling my hagged body back to upright to make it for them. Somehow my barrel has a little energy left after all. Life is good again.
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| Pah, Spiderman's nothing, watch this space |
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What do you think, guys? Better than daisies? 
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