“Mummy!” berates Emilia, my seven year old, “do you think you could make sure I have clean pants in my drawer because I am fed up of going downstairs [to the washing line] to get them.”
“Oh sorry, Emilia” I reply, with the merest hint of sarcasm, “I am clearly failing in my duties.”
“Indeed you are” she agrees.
And indeed I am, failing, in all aspects of house-wifery. I am not on top of it at all. The washing is piling up around my ears, the house is rarely tidy or clean and I have never got the right food in. This is never more the case than in the holidays, when the mess is created as fast as you can clear up and another meal time seems to come round constantly. No sooner than you finish breakfast, you are making a picnic lunch, which invariably gets eaten in the car on the way to wherever you are going anyway.
Any small task, like popping out for milk, becomes an event when you have to be accompanied by four other bodies. Before we can go anywhere I become a sergeant major, shouting out instructions, and chivvying and cajoling children into finding socks, shoes, coats/ jumpers and getting them to stop what they are doing and simultaneously leave the house. In the process of ushering everyone out of the door I can usually be relied upon to mislay my own shoes, keys or phone. (A person can be lost for sometime in the abyss of the shoe cupboard, attempting to retrieve a matching pair of the right size, shape and appropriateness.) I wonder what the neighbours think as they see me doing shuttle runs up and down the front steps gathering forgotten items, whilst the children all wait on me.
Ben clearly thinks I need some parenting assistance too, and actually he is brilliant with Patrick, far more patient than I am. He is great at distracting him out of tantrums and can usually get him to do what needs to be done. The only thing is, he now feels this service needs some recognition. The other day he said to me; “Mum, you know I help you with your job, of raising the children,”
“Yes?” I reply cautiously
“Well do you think you might give me some money for doing that?”
I think actually, if I was getting paid for doing this I might be inclined to do a rather better job. You know things aren’t going well when you find yourself using the brush from the dustpan to flatten down your son’s hair as you are leaving for school. (In my defence – it was a brand new one I hadn’t actually used for the dust yet.)
To be fair, my standards have slipped...a lot. I used to mind about the days of the week marked socks being worn on the wrong day, or about pyjama top and bottoms not matching. I used to need the children’s teeth to be cleaned before their bath to prevent the need for rewashing faces clean of toothpaste.
I like order... I don’t get it. Patrick goes out of his way to wear odd socks, another of his misguided fashion statements.
I don’t mind these things now, either through increased tolerance or just being worn down. It is enough that they are dressed, clean and fed, or it should be.
Emilia seems to be becoming more and more judgemental of me, and not just in the washing department. Yesterday when I was eating, she came and looked over at my plate with distaste.
“Is that peanut butter?....and jam?....I can’t think of anything more ridiclious to put in a sandwich....except maybe crisps.”
Another time she was on her way to bed and asked me, “Are you going to watch something now?”
“No” I replied “I am just going to read my book.”
“What a BORING thing to do, if I was a grown up I’d watch TV.”
In the face of such condemnation is it any wonder I am giving up a little.
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