Where is everybody? I thought I’d come back from my various Easter sojourns to find that lots of you had found me floating aimlessly in cyberspace looking for friends. I was even bracing myself for the odd “I think you’re really crap” comment and how thinking about how best to deal with it. But… absolutely nothing. I suppose if there are 74 million (and counting) other blog diaries to read every morning before you feel you have a balanced view of the world then maybe it’s going to take a while.
Anyway, if anyone is remotely interested, I have been away. With the children. Neither journey could be called a “holiday” as such, (to me that word suggests laughter, sand, heat, blonde hair, water, boats, images in brochures). What we have just done was more like a “trip” (in the “stumble and fall” meaning of the word, rather than an experience with a hallucinogenic drug).
Holidays/trips/anywhere in general that involves being in a car for more than 15 minutes are a nightmare when you have children. They are even more of a nightmare when you have children and no partner. It is bad enough having to cope with being the only “responsible” adult in general everyday life, but when it comes to going away, it is not good at all. A car journey has now become rife with problems. I now have to be the one to do a quiz with them or to play I Spy (or is it Eye Spy?). I have nobody to pack the car in an ergonomic and incredibly anal way, no one to blame when we get lost, no one to swear at and no one to check the car before we get in it to make sure we don’t die on our journey – “Have you checked the tyres mum? Said my 14 year old (boy obviously),
“no” I said “I’m sure they’re fine” (but I was thinking what does he mean? Check them for what? Lice? Or was I supposed to go to a garage and pump them up with air (how?) and know what level of air was meant to be in them? Really must do a mechanics course in the absence of man – or may be easier just to quickly find a new man who knows about tyres).
“Well dad always checks them before we go anywhere”
“Typical” I thought to myself.
It has only been three months since we have had to move out of “the family house” and into a much smaller version of a house. Adapting to less space during endless, yawning gaps of time has resulted in that perfect blend of angry boredom and frustration. After two days it had become apparent that we “needed to get away”. The house didn’t feel big enough for all four of us to be there at the same time. Suddenly it felt like I had three Great Dane puppies bounding around all needing attention. It was impossible to even get through a doorway without one of us getting bruised in the process and the issue of who should be on the computer (now that I am a serious contender) had reached volcanic proportions. In our old house when the children were bored they could invite friends to play, because there was the space. If there was nobody else to play with, I could at least go into hiding. I would sit in the Wendy house at the bottom of the garden, smoking, safe in the knowledge that they would never find me. Now, there is simply nowhere to hide.
So, for the moment, I have become a slightly demented traveller – in that I don’t really want to go anywhere, but I feel I have no choice. On that basis, with relatively low expectations of successfully pleasing everybody, I made some calls. I seem to think that pretending to be an airline pilot and giving myself not nearly enough time to pack, find passports, money, get most of the clothes back out of the laundry basket and get to the airport and through security with only moments to spare, is a vaguely enjoyable way to travel. I have taken to letting the children pack for themselves, in an effort to ease the strain, but arriving somewhere with one spare shoe and no underpants can create another whole set of problems.
Trip 1
We went to stay with some very good friends in deepest, darkest Scotland. I knew the kids would love it – my friend is the Mary Poppins of all mothers. I knew I might well hate it because she makes me feel inadequate in every way and even more depressingly she also has a gorgeous husband, who loves her with a passion (he still kisses her on the neck in public!). I have had to avoid seeing them for a very long time – too bitter and twisted and jealous to cope. The children did all sorts of activities – horse riding, kayaking, cycling and anything else that in my opinion looked deeply unappealing in every way. My children aren’t used to fresh air – they’re used to stale, stay in the bedroom and play on computer games type air. We positively overdosed on fresh air. We had to be out doing things all day long – even when it was bloody freezing, we were picnicking on some bit of grass or other, we were all wearing fleeces and they were wearing swimming trunks.
Things I did in Scotland whilst the children were busy:
1. Spent two hours in Top Shop trying to look as good as my daughter (failed, obviously).
2.Spent two hours in TK Maxx – buying cheap but far too big trainers for the children.
3.Went to a birthday party for five dogs. Apparently they do it every year. There was cake (made of meat obviously), there were presents (wrapped) and we sang Happy Birthday (I didn’t).
4.Watched “An Inconvenient Truth”, a scary documentary presented by Al Gore, about global warming. Everybody should watch it. Now need to buy a hybrid car (what is a hybrid car and do I have to plug it in every evening?) Also need to know what exactly a carbon footprint is.
5.Woke up every morning to the sound of music. In the adjacent room my friends were singing Oliver songs with all six children in their bed. They were drinking tea and eating biscuits. I was alone, with not even biscuit crumbs for company.
Trip 2
Very long drive to visit my parents. Nobody wanted to go – my parents didn’t even want me to come…not sure why I was bothering. We were only home only for long enough to empty out our suitcase, do three loads of washing and re-pack before we set off again. I had to bribe the children to get in the car for a long drive by agreeing to McDonald’s for lunch on route. Amazing how their car-sickness threats evaporate with the thought of burgers and chips.
We stopped at a hideous motorway service station for above-mentioned bribe. As we all sat together I suggested that we should have a family discussion about life in general. My Scottish friends have a ‘forum’ every Sunday evening with their children to discuss relevant issues, so thought I would try the same. “Does anybody want to talk about anything that’s worrying them?” “Yes” said my six-year-old, “have you noticed how these chicken nuggets look like brains and have you also noticed that the skin underneath my willy looks exactly the same?” “You mean on your testicles?” I say, “no, on my balls” he says. “The reason your balls look like your brain is because it is your brain” says 11 year old daughter.
Give up on idea of forum.
Now I remember why I bothered. I am lucky enough to have both Grandmothers still alive. Which means the children are lucky enough to have both Great Grandmothers still alive and from time to time they need to visit them and be reminded of how amazing it all is.
Grandmother 1
She is 93 (I think) and very sprightly and very deaf. Arrived for coffee and she said, “Sorry about my flower arrangement, I got it from a funeral – quite dull really, didn’t bother to stay for a drink afterwards, it was full of old fogeys. She said to me “your hair looks worse than mine”, gave the children 20p each, talked about lots of people we have never met and then we left. “At least she didn’t fart this time”, said my daughter.
Grandmother 2
Very glamorous in her day – still has hair done and wears red lipstick, but because her eyes are going, her lipstick is now all over the place and since my last visit one of her front teeth has fallen out and she doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Haven’t you grown” she said to me, “I’d never have recognised you”. Then my daughter walked in and she’d realised she’d confused us. How great did I feel to be confused with an 11 year old girl? – “mum, don’t forget she’s completely blind”. We had yet more hideous coffee and biscuits and the children tried hard not to look bored and tried even harder not to mention the fact that they think she smells.
My father had made an appointment for me to meet his lawyer. Apparently I should have changed my will ages ago. He handed me my old will, the one written 13 years ago when I was happy and living in Australia, with only one child to worry about. All my worldly goods were going to my husband and my trustees weren’t dead. I need to rethink who I want to be my trustees and executors and who I want as a guardian, should I die and the children have to be re-homed. I also need to decide who should be my next of kin in the event that I become brain damaged and a decision to turn off all machines has to be made…all fairly grim. My old will states that “I wish to be cremated”. Did I really say that? Like “I wish I was a princess” or “I wish I had some new black shiny shoes”….perhaps wording should be changed…of course I don’t “wish” to be bloody cremated.
“So what do you all think”? I ask them on the way home to our teeny weeny abode, “shall we move to the country”? “No, it stinks” says the 14 year old. Back to the stale air we go….
