Saturday, May 7th 2011
Mrs. Bennet decided it was about time she started writing down all the funny things her twin daughters Spag and Bol muttered on a daily basis before the brain cells she had left finally disappeared with the odd socks, hair bands and Polly Pocket shoes.
Having realised her last diary entry was January 1st and it contained a pledge not to lose any of the little Miss Bennets, she thought it was only fair to state that she had NOT abandoned any in a supermarket, car, street or otherwise. She had lost many other things, but generally they were not of the living variety. Instead they were of the variety that always proved to annoy and frustrate her, so much so she often commented to her hormone-suffering husband: "Why do I spend most of my day looking for things when I had them only five minutes ago?"
Two hair brushes had disappeared in a spate of three days. Mrs. Bennet used her fingers to comb her own purple, blond and red streaked hair, but they didn't have the same result on five long-haired daughters. Mrs. Bennet didn't do long hair and still hadn't mastered the perfect ponytail. Somehow it always ended up one side and partings were never straight down the middle. They seemed to have several extra pathways veering to the left or right.
It wasn't surprising then that her legs were also allergic to skirts or dresses. They much preferred jeans. But last week Mrs. Bennet decided to break from tradition and allow part of her short pins to show - so long as their twin-induced varicose veins weren't on display for all to see. Her attire didn't go unnoticed.
In fact some members of the household were very quick to respond. Notably Miss Bennet number four, affectionately nicknamed Spag.
"Mummy," she declared in deliberate fashion, "Why are you pretending to be a lady?"
Mrs. Bennet couldn't help but laugh. This little twin was always dressing up in long flowing robes, twirling around in front of the mirror and declaring that she was a Princess. She clearly didn't see Mrs. Bennet in this category. Although Spag had been suitably impressed when watching her mother's wedding DVD to see her in the ultimate Cinderella dress complete with 5ft train - and white Dr Marten boots. SHe wore that 14 years ago. Mrs. Bennet was sure she had worn a skirt since then, or may be she hadn't. It was obvious by Spag's remarks that not many dresses or non-trouser outfits had been part of her attire in Miss Bennet Number Four's four year lifetime. Mrs. Bennet didn't have to come up with a reply. Her older daughters did it for her.
"That's because she is a lady! She's not pretending."
Secretly Mrs. Bennet thought Spag was right. She did feel as if she was pretending. But she liked it. So much so she went out and bought another skirt the following day.
Saturday 7 May 2011
Saturday 1 January 2011
A pledge not to leave a daughter behind
Saturday, January 1st 2011
“I, Mrs. Bennet do solemnly declare that I will in 2011 count all my children in, and count them all out. That way I will ensure I don’t leave any one of the five Miss Bennets behind, whatever the word behind might refer to at that given time. I will also make a better effort not to lose my car keys and instead put them back on their hook so that last minute panics don’t occur. Oh and I promise to put at least one photo in an album this coming year.” Signed Mrs. Bennet.
So it had come to this: writing promises and pledges to her children. Whether it was for her benefit or for theirs she wasn’t quite sure. But one thing she did know was that it did have a little something to do with guilt. It was ever since Mr. Bennet came home one Tuesday night and discovered that one of the little Miss Twin Bennets was missing. Mrs. Bennet had been in the kitchen, trying desperately to produce something vaguely edible that her daughters would eat without wriggling up their noses, pulling a distorted face and inquiring “what is it?” and then declaring that they didn’t like “it,” and would not be eating their tea. Mrs. Bennet had not been in a good mood that evening. One of the older Miss Bennets had been rude, downright stubborn and had refused to do what she was told. It meant precious time had been lost and Mrs. Bennet had 20 minutes to feed five hungry mouths and leave with the eldest child for the next Bennet appointment – and there were many in her household. They had been to a ballet lesson, but due to rebellion in the camp, the lesson wasn’t completed and tantrums had caused an embarrassed Mrs. Bennet to leave in somewhat lower spirits than she had arrived. In her upset, she had forgotten her arithmetic, so when Mr. Bennet, who was much better in the maths department than herself, arrived, he was able to notice that the sum of daughters didn’t quite add up.
“Where’s Rosie?” he asked.
“What do you mean? Playing with her people I expect,” answered Mrs. Bennet, realising that she hadn’t been asked for a drink or food from her eldest twin for almost half an hour.
She joined her husband in the hunt for the missing child. Being busy in the kitchen and leaving the children to play quietly and happily, Mrs.Bennet had wrongly assumed all were present. As not one child had noticed that the dark-haired Miss Bennet Number Four or her well-chewed bunny with its heart-shaped patch covering the hole on his bottom weren’t in the house, Mrs. Bennet hadn’t had cause to worry – until now.
“But she’s not been out of my sight!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, her voice beginning to shake and the insides of her stomach starting to churn as she tried desperately to recall every movement Rosie had made. She ran outside and opened the car door, peered in and closed it again. Now she was panicking. Her mind blank, her heart racing, she turned to her husband in desperation.
“I don’t know where she is and I don’t know what to do!”
Frantic minutes of rushing around the house, searching and calling followed. In the midst of her own turmoil, Mrs.Bennet stopped and prayed. In the only second of calm, she decided to have another look in the Scooby Doo Van, where on sliding the door, she found crouched in a tight ball in the footwell between the second row and third row car seats with Rabbit held firmly in her hand, was the missing child.
“Rosie! I’m so sorry love. Come here!” Not giving her daughter a chance to reply, Mrs.. Bennet embraced her in a huge hug, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Oh Rosie, I thought we’d lost you.”
“I did call you Mummy but you didn’t hear me!”
So that was why Mrs. Bennet was now promising to count her children in and out. In the stress of dealing with a rather stubborn nine-year-old, she had failed to move the back seat and pull her first twin out.
Mrs. Bennet knew she was not a perfect mother, but she did love her daughters, even if they did push her to limits and test her patience. And she also knew how easy it was to get distracted by one her little people. Between 4pm and 6.30pm – before Mr. Bennet arrived home – was often a time when World War III took place. It was the period when she frequently longed to grow wings and fly off to a make-believe place where the words conflict, disobedience and rebellion didn’t exist. A hot soothing Mr. Latte often helped but just didn’t last long enough.
So here she was in 2011. A year when three of her offspring would be starting new schools – the eldest off to secondary and the youngest two joining the sea of green uniforms at primary. She decided with so many labels to sew on, she had better order them now and get working. That way she might also remember her children’s names. There was nothing worse when going to tell a child off than using the wrong name and having to go through all five to get to the right one. It under-minded your authority somewhat.
And so with an era of nappy changing behind her, luke-warm coffee in hand, Mrs. Bennet stumbled into 2011, knowing it would be a year of military operations, time-table schedules, taxi driving, refereeing, cooking and attempting to remember where each child was each day. She would endeavour to ensure each got home safely and weren’t left anywhere. After all if she did it again, her daughters might hold it against her in her old age, and forget to look after her when she needed it.
“I, Mrs. Bennet do solemnly declare that I will in 2011 count all my children in, and count them all out. That way I will ensure I don’t leave any one of the five Miss Bennets behind, whatever the word behind might refer to at that given time. I will also make a better effort not to lose my car keys and instead put them back on their hook so that last minute panics don’t occur. Oh and I promise to put at least one photo in an album this coming year.” Signed Mrs. Bennet.
So it had come to this: writing promises and pledges to her children. Whether it was for her benefit or for theirs she wasn’t quite sure. But one thing she did know was that it did have a little something to do with guilt. It was ever since Mr. Bennet came home one Tuesday night and discovered that one of the little Miss Twin Bennets was missing. Mrs. Bennet had been in the kitchen, trying desperately to produce something vaguely edible that her daughters would eat without wriggling up their noses, pulling a distorted face and inquiring “what is it?” and then declaring that they didn’t like “it,” and would not be eating their tea. Mrs. Bennet had not been in a good mood that evening. One of the older Miss Bennets had been rude, downright stubborn and had refused to do what she was told. It meant precious time had been lost and Mrs. Bennet had 20 minutes to feed five hungry mouths and leave with the eldest child for the next Bennet appointment – and there were many in her household. They had been to a ballet lesson, but due to rebellion in the camp, the lesson wasn’t completed and tantrums had caused an embarrassed Mrs. Bennet to leave in somewhat lower spirits than she had arrived. In her upset, she had forgotten her arithmetic, so when Mr. Bennet, who was much better in the maths department than herself, arrived, he was able to notice that the sum of daughters didn’t quite add up.
“Where’s Rosie?” he asked.
“What do you mean? Playing with her people I expect,” answered Mrs. Bennet, realising that she hadn’t been asked for a drink or food from her eldest twin for almost half an hour.
She joined her husband in the hunt for the missing child. Being busy in the kitchen and leaving the children to play quietly and happily, Mrs.Bennet had wrongly assumed all were present. As not one child had noticed that the dark-haired Miss Bennet Number Four or her well-chewed bunny with its heart-shaped patch covering the hole on his bottom weren’t in the house, Mrs. Bennet hadn’t had cause to worry – until now.
“But she’s not been out of my sight!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, her voice beginning to shake and the insides of her stomach starting to churn as she tried desperately to recall every movement Rosie had made. She ran outside and opened the car door, peered in and closed it again. Now she was panicking. Her mind blank, her heart racing, she turned to her husband in desperation.
“I don’t know where she is and I don’t know what to do!”
Frantic minutes of rushing around the house, searching and calling followed. In the midst of her own turmoil, Mrs.Bennet stopped and prayed. In the only second of calm, she decided to have another look in the Scooby Doo Van, where on sliding the door, she found crouched in a tight ball in the footwell between the second row and third row car seats with Rabbit held firmly in her hand, was the missing child.
“Rosie! I’m so sorry love. Come here!” Not giving her daughter a chance to reply, Mrs.. Bennet embraced her in a huge hug, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Oh Rosie, I thought we’d lost you.”
“I did call you Mummy but you didn’t hear me!”
So that was why Mrs. Bennet was now promising to count her children in and out. In the stress of dealing with a rather stubborn nine-year-old, she had failed to move the back seat and pull her first twin out.
Mrs. Bennet knew she was not a perfect mother, but she did love her daughters, even if they did push her to limits and test her patience. And she also knew how easy it was to get distracted by one her little people. Between 4pm and 6.30pm – before Mr. Bennet arrived home – was often a time when World War III took place. It was the period when she frequently longed to grow wings and fly off to a make-believe place where the words conflict, disobedience and rebellion didn’t exist. A hot soothing Mr. Latte often helped but just didn’t last long enough.
So here she was in 2011. A year when three of her offspring would be starting new schools – the eldest off to secondary and the youngest two joining the sea of green uniforms at primary. She decided with so many labels to sew on, she had better order them now and get working. That way she might also remember her children’s names. There was nothing worse when going to tell a child off than using the wrong name and having to go through all five to get to the right one. It under-minded your authority somewhat.
And so with an era of nappy changing behind her, luke-warm coffee in hand, Mrs. Bennet stumbled into 2011, knowing it would be a year of military operations, time-table schedules, taxi driving, refereeing, cooking and attempting to remember where each child was each day. She would endeavour to ensure each got home safely and weren’t left anywhere. After all if she did it again, her daughters might hold it against her in her old age, and forget to look after her when she needed it.
Wednesday 22 September 2010
My bottom’s not working
Wednesday, September 22’10
After 10 years of daily wiping and changing bottoms, Mrs. Bennet had served her sentence. Thirty seven and a half thousand nappies later she was now a free woman. Miss Bennet Number Four – the last of the Bennet girls to master the given art of performing in the correct place – had finally announced very proudly “Mummy, my bottom’s working now!”
Having seen three children through the nappy-to-pant stage, Mrs. Bennet thought numbers four and five would be easy. She was wrong. Twin bottoms were a different matter. Two bottoms attached to two very different bodies. One would think that if one twin derriere had successfully progressed from the L stage to pass, then the other would follow. Not so in Spag and Bol’s case. It was Bol, the smaller twin who first decided she no longer wanted the restrictions of a nappy and instead opt to actually wear the chosen Dora the Explorer collection of pants instead of admire them from a distance. The Peppa Pig pant family remained in their cellophane wrapper for months and months. Spag liked to look at them. Wearing them was not high on her agenda. She much preferred spending time playing with her little people, having conversations with them and making them her friends. Bol liked being with real people and observed every move they made, so it figured that as she followed her mother into the bathroom every time nature called, she too wanted to sit on the big toilet. So she trained herself, announced what she wanted to do, took herself to the potty and did the business without any accidents. Bol desperately did her best to get her bigger sister by 20 minutes to follow suit, but Spag just congratulated her and decided that her twin could receive the glory, so long as she could get on with role playing. And so at 3 years and 4 months she finally allowed Peppa Pig out of the pant packet.
But as any mother knows just because the child in question has moved from changing mat to toilet seat does not mean that the word “mess” is eliminated from the vocabulary. Quite the contrary, it can in fact mean this word appears more and prompts a few choice words in response! Now Mrs. Bennet knew that this was not the case for all the little Miss Bennets. Bol had been a dream potty trainee. She took herself to the said pot, did her business and got rid of the evidence without spillage. She announced what she needed to do and did it – in the right place. Spag however had the laid-back approach to the pant wearing regime and if she needed to do her business and the bathroom was a little further than she cared to travel, she produced amidst her toys – often fumigating her Polly Pocket people. However she was on the right track. Accidents were only a handful a week now and at least Mrs. Bennet was saving money by not having to buy nappies. Perhaps she should put by what she was saving in a special toiletry collection bank, ready for the next expensive item which would affect the Bennet household. She knew it wouldn’t be long before the periods started and the volcano of hormones would start exploding. With six women suffering PMT, Mr. Bennet had no idea what was coming his way. Thirty-seven thousand nappies were nothing compared to the amount of sanitary towels required in the coming years. Mrs. Bennet could only feel sorry for her poor husband. It would be his nerves and not her own which would be severely tested.
After 10 years of daily wiping and changing bottoms, Mrs. Bennet had served her sentence. Thirty seven and a half thousand nappies later she was now a free woman. Miss Bennet Number Four – the last of the Bennet girls to master the given art of performing in the correct place – had finally announced very proudly “Mummy, my bottom’s working now!”
Having seen three children through the nappy-to-pant stage, Mrs. Bennet thought numbers four and five would be easy. She was wrong. Twin bottoms were a different matter. Two bottoms attached to two very different bodies. One would think that if one twin derriere had successfully progressed from the L stage to pass, then the other would follow. Not so in Spag and Bol’s case. It was Bol, the smaller twin who first decided she no longer wanted the restrictions of a nappy and instead opt to actually wear the chosen Dora the Explorer collection of pants instead of admire them from a distance. The Peppa Pig pant family remained in their cellophane wrapper for months and months. Spag liked to look at them. Wearing them was not high on her agenda. She much preferred spending time playing with her little people, having conversations with them and making them her friends. Bol liked being with real people and observed every move they made, so it figured that as she followed her mother into the bathroom every time nature called, she too wanted to sit on the big toilet. So she trained herself, announced what she wanted to do, took herself to the potty and did the business without any accidents. Bol desperately did her best to get her bigger sister by 20 minutes to follow suit, but Spag just congratulated her and decided that her twin could receive the glory, so long as she could get on with role playing. And so at 3 years and 4 months she finally allowed Peppa Pig out of the pant packet.
But as any mother knows just because the child in question has moved from changing mat to toilet seat does not mean that the word “mess” is eliminated from the vocabulary. Quite the contrary, it can in fact mean this word appears more and prompts a few choice words in response! Now Mrs. Bennet knew that this was not the case for all the little Miss Bennets. Bol had been a dream potty trainee. She took herself to the said pot, did her business and got rid of the evidence without spillage. She announced what she needed to do and did it – in the right place. Spag however had the laid-back approach to the pant wearing regime and if she needed to do her business and the bathroom was a little further than she cared to travel, she produced amidst her toys – often fumigating her Polly Pocket people. However she was on the right track. Accidents were only a handful a week now and at least Mrs. Bennet was saving money by not having to buy nappies. Perhaps she should put by what she was saving in a special toiletry collection bank, ready for the next expensive item which would affect the Bennet household. She knew it wouldn’t be long before the periods started and the volcano of hormones would start exploding. With six women suffering PMT, Mr. Bennet had no idea what was coming his way. Thirty-seven thousand nappies were nothing compared to the amount of sanitary towels required in the coming years. Mrs. Bennet could only feel sorry for her poor husband. It would be his nerves and not her own which would be severely tested.
Thursday 15 July 2010
The boxing Bennets
Wednesday, July 15 2010
Her head throbbed and her thumb hurt. Mrs. Bennet sat in a crumpled heap in the playroom floor surrounded by playdough tools, hardened lumps, tiny sunglasses with bent arms, princess shoes missing their precious jewels and shape sorters stuffed with everything(breakfast toast remains included) but the rightful triangular, circular and square residents. Towering above her in a mocking fashion as it gently wobbled from side to side was the latest acquisition to the Bennet household - a punchbag and its boxing glove companions. The younger twin, Miss Kezia Spiers called it a hot air balloon. Mrs. Bennet decided this was an excellent name for it. The whole idea of buying this strange toy was to get rid of the hot air between two of her offspring. Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet were in the midst of a "you're the worst sister ever" season and it was driving Mrs. Bennet mad.
They knew how to wind each other up and purposely pushed the boundaries to get a reaction. Voices would rise, punches would fly and tears would flow - all before breakfast which made passing go almost impossible for the school run. The "go directly to gaol" card was frequently issued by the mother. Not to the offenders. To herself.
Sometimes a night in a cell sounded quite appealing if it avoided waking up to fights. In desperation rather than in wisdom, Mrs. Bennet hunted down the local shops for a punchbag - as you do - so that the argumentative Miss Bennets could lash out at the bag rather than each other. Impressed by this novelty item, they immediately pledged to be friends then promptly argued over who would try it out first. Miss Kezia Bennet enjoyed it the most, hitting her black air balloon proudly with tiny fists and huge grin. But it soon became obvious to Mrs. Bennet who the punchbag was really for - her.
An hour or so later, after yet another bout of Miss Bennet blues and battles, Mrs. Bennet walked out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet walked in and counted to 100 whilst hitting the steering wheel. Let it be said quickly here that she was not driving - just taking much needed time out in the safety of her four tin walls. She was too frustrated and angry to let herself near the punchbag in case she boxed it off its stand. Ten minutes on she let herself go back in, headed straight for the boxing gloves and jabbed at the bag with all her might. Hot in the face, she finally stopped punching. It was only then, once her passionate display had cooled, that she realised her thumb was really sore.
"You do realise broken thumbs are a common injury for boxers, don't you?!" offered a voice from the adjoining kitchen. No doubt intrigued by his wife's sudden burst of energy and need to improve her upper body muscle-tone, Mr. Bennet had been secretly watching.
Mrs. Bennet felt like punching him, but at risk of making her thumb worse, decided to poke her tongue out at him instead. Once her thumb had recovered its first bout of boxing, she knew Mr. Punchbag would be her new friend. She could punch him as hard as she liked and he would never ever complain.
Her head throbbed and her thumb hurt. Mrs. Bennet sat in a crumpled heap in the playroom floor surrounded by playdough tools, hardened lumps, tiny sunglasses with bent arms, princess shoes missing their precious jewels and shape sorters stuffed with everything(breakfast toast remains included) but the rightful triangular, circular and square residents. Towering above her in a mocking fashion as it gently wobbled from side to side was the latest acquisition to the Bennet household - a punchbag and its boxing glove companions. The younger twin, Miss Kezia Spiers called it a hot air balloon. Mrs. Bennet decided this was an excellent name for it. The whole idea of buying this strange toy was to get rid of the hot air between two of her offspring. Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet were in the midst of a "you're the worst sister ever" season and it was driving Mrs. Bennet mad.
They knew how to wind each other up and purposely pushed the boundaries to get a reaction. Voices would rise, punches would fly and tears would flow - all before breakfast which made passing go almost impossible for the school run. The "go directly to gaol" card was frequently issued by the mother. Not to the offenders. To herself.
Sometimes a night in a cell sounded quite appealing if it avoided waking up to fights. In desperation rather than in wisdom, Mrs. Bennet hunted down the local shops for a punchbag - as you do - so that the argumentative Miss Bennets could lash out at the bag rather than each other. Impressed by this novelty item, they immediately pledged to be friends then promptly argued over who would try it out first. Miss Kezia Bennet enjoyed it the most, hitting her black air balloon proudly with tiny fists and huge grin. But it soon became obvious to Mrs. Bennet who the punchbag was really for - her.
An hour or so later, after yet another bout of Miss Bennet blues and battles, Mrs. Bennet walked out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet walked in and counted to 100 whilst hitting the steering wheel. Let it be said quickly here that she was not driving - just taking much needed time out in the safety of her four tin walls. She was too frustrated and angry to let herself near the punchbag in case she boxed it off its stand. Ten minutes on she let herself go back in, headed straight for the boxing gloves and jabbed at the bag with all her might. Hot in the face, she finally stopped punching. It was only then, once her passionate display had cooled, that she realised her thumb was really sore.
"You do realise broken thumbs are a common injury for boxers, don't you?!" offered a voice from the adjoining kitchen. No doubt intrigued by his wife's sudden burst of energy and need to improve her upper body muscle-tone, Mr. Bennet had been secretly watching.
Mrs. Bennet felt like punching him, but at risk of making her thumb worse, decided to poke her tongue out at him instead. Once her thumb had recovered its first bout of boxing, she knew Mr. Punchbag would be her new friend. She could punch him as hard as she liked and he would never ever complain.
Friday 9 July 2010
I don't like being 40
Friday, July 9th 2010
Mrs. Bennet wanted her money back. Being forty was not what it promised to be. Life was supposed to begin. But her body had obviously rebelled about being such an age. Certain bits were in decline rather than in blooming mode. In order to write this, she was now wearing glasses. Having realised that she was holding her book further and further away in order to read the small print, she reluctantly made a long-overdue eye test. Armed with her new purple-starred reading specs the long-sighted road had begun. So now by her bedside table lay her glasses alongside her passion-killing mouth guard, acquired a couple if months ago. Apparently she ground her teeth in the night which caused her jaw to ache in the day! She'd lost a tooth, broke another one on an olive stone, had trouble with her varicose veins thanks to the twins' pregnancy, now had to wear padded bras as the five Miss Bennets had munched what little she had at the milk bar; and to depressingly she had recently discovered a white hair in a place she didn't wish to disclose! But as she had always vowed to grow old disgracefully she had booked up a hair appointment to have purple and burgundy streaks. She could run 10k quite comfortably thank you and more importantly she knew how to laugh with and at herself. But to be honest being forty hadn't been fun. Her children still loved her even if they chuckled at her new support aids. Miss Bennet Number Three,spotting her mouth shield had even boldly asked: "Mummy what's it like wearing false teeth?!" But considering she had five little girls to look after, a job, a husband to love and a very active life - although her socially her children seemed to have far more exciting things to do - she wasn't doing too badly. She just hoped being 41 would prove to be better and she hold all her working bits together!
Mrs. Bennet wanted her money back. Being forty was not what it promised to be. Life was supposed to begin. But her body had obviously rebelled about being such an age. Certain bits were in decline rather than in blooming mode. In order to write this, she was now wearing glasses. Having realised that she was holding her book further and further away in order to read the small print, she reluctantly made a long-overdue eye test. Armed with her new purple-starred reading specs the long-sighted road had begun. So now by her bedside table lay her glasses alongside her passion-killing mouth guard, acquired a couple if months ago. Apparently she ground her teeth in the night which caused her jaw to ache in the day! She'd lost a tooth, broke another one on an olive stone, had trouble with her varicose veins thanks to the twins' pregnancy, now had to wear padded bras as the five Miss Bennets had munched what little she had at the milk bar; and to depressingly she had recently discovered a white hair in a place she didn't wish to disclose! But as she had always vowed to grow old disgracefully she had booked up a hair appointment to have purple and burgundy streaks. She could run 10k quite comfortably thank you and more importantly she knew how to laugh with and at herself. But to be honest being forty hadn't been fun. Her children still loved her even if they chuckled at her new support aids. Miss Bennet Number Three,spotting her mouth shield had even boldly asked: "Mummy what's it like wearing false teeth?!" But considering she had five little girls to look after, a job, a husband to love and a very active life - although her socially her children seemed to have far more exciting things to do - she wasn't doing too badly. She just hoped being 41 would prove to be better and she hold all her working bits together!
Thursday 1 July 2010
I know what you’re up to
Wednesday, June 30 '10
The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.
The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.
Monday 7 June 2010
Labour pains of a Mummy
Monday, June 7 2010
Motherhood, Mrs. Bennet decided was like being in permanent labour. There were moments of calm. And there were moments when the contractions were so painful, she felt like screaming. Sitting on the doorstep, head in hands and breathing deeply was one of those moments. Minutes before the little Twin Bennets were happily playing in the playroom, Miss Bennet Number One was literally plastered with paper mache, engrossed in building a model air raid shelter, Miss Bennet Number Two was cartwheeling across the lounge floor, while Miss Bennet Number Three was sitting quietly amidst a rainbow of coloured felt tips working on her latest masterpiece. There was a contented aura in the house which meant Mrs Bennet could get on with preparing tea without having to act as referee or counsellor. So how come then she was now sitting on the step, wishing she was somewhere else and counting the minutes to Mr. Bennet’s return? She was victim of the domino effect. The Braxton Hicks contractor that started small, but built up so strongly, she had top gasp for air. Since she had no cylinder of Gas and Air to call upon, it meant leaving the house to count to ten and get her blood pressure under control again.
It started with the simple act of opening a cupboard. A small bottle of pearly brown nail varnish had nose-dived into her favourite spotty mug and in doing so smashed the top, sending little chips onto the hob and floor. Bending down to pick up the bits, she banged her head on the corner of a cupboard she had forgotten to shut. Simultaneously battles were erupting in the different downstairs rooms. The little Miss Twin Bennets, who up until now had been behaving themselves, sharing their toys and chatting in their unique Spagbolese language, were now at war. The elder twin by 20 minutes was sitting on top of her sister’s head, refusing to let go of her as her rival had stolen both Fifi characters and wasn’t going to give in. Prizing her from the head sitter, affectionately known as Spag, Mrs. Bennet issued a peace treaty and separated the two fighters. Meanwhile the cartwheeling Miss Bennet had promptly crashed into the very table her artistic siblings were working on, wobbling it to the degree it caused glue to spill and felt tip marks to slip.
“Now my picture’s ruined! It’s all your fault Emily!” exclaimed Miss Bennet number three, ripping up her bright design.
“And look what you’ve done!” cried the elder Miss Bennet, not impressed by the acrobat.
In sorting out this scenario, Mrs Bennet completely forgot about the pot of boiling water and the pasta within. A certain burning smell was heading her way. Too late, the pasta was now part of the saucepan. She hurriedly picked up the handle and ushered the pan to the sink, but somehow failed to miss the pair of tiny pink spotty sunglasses on the floor and crushed them underfoot, hurting herself as she did so. The younger twin, to which the mini fashion accessory belonged, didn’t miss a trick and immediately howled, knowing full well what her mother had just done. So now Mrs. Bennet was the accused and Bol had the evidence that she was guilty. Mrs. Bennet felt like the burnt pasta: frazzled. And it was another 90 minutes before her Mr. Darcy arrived to rescue her.
Sometimes the contractions of motherhood came thick and fast; other days they were a little less frequent. Very rarely was there a day in the Bennet household, when the labour pains barely registered on the graph. And of course there were moments when Mrs. Bennet, so sleep deprived, felt like she had taken one too many puffs on the Gas and Air. Yesterday she had bathed Bol and dried her, to be told by Mr. Bennet that she had failed to wash out the shampoo on the little twin’s head! She had spent the day wearing her top inside out and one earring only and the bottle of Chardonnay she had bought for a friend, promptly rolled out of the car and smashed at her feet as she opened the door.
“You think once you’ve had a child, labour stops. But it’s a lie, it continues for years,” she said out loud from her I-feel-sorry-for-myself step. She breathed out as she was taught all those years ago at Parentcraft lessons and made a decision to see if there were some Gas and Air cylinders on EBay she could bid for. She’d then keep one in each room ready for the next contraction.
Motherhood, Mrs. Bennet decided was like being in permanent labour. There were moments of calm. And there were moments when the contractions were so painful, she felt like screaming. Sitting on the doorstep, head in hands and breathing deeply was one of those moments. Minutes before the little Twin Bennets were happily playing in the playroom, Miss Bennet Number One was literally plastered with paper mache, engrossed in building a model air raid shelter, Miss Bennet Number Two was cartwheeling across the lounge floor, while Miss Bennet Number Three was sitting quietly amidst a rainbow of coloured felt tips working on her latest masterpiece. There was a contented aura in the house which meant Mrs Bennet could get on with preparing tea without having to act as referee or counsellor. So how come then she was now sitting on the step, wishing she was somewhere else and counting the minutes to Mr. Bennet’s return? She was victim of the domino effect. The Braxton Hicks contractor that started small, but built up so strongly, she had top gasp for air. Since she had no cylinder of Gas and Air to call upon, it meant leaving the house to count to ten and get her blood pressure under control again.
It started with the simple act of opening a cupboard. A small bottle of pearly brown nail varnish had nose-dived into her favourite spotty mug and in doing so smashed the top, sending little chips onto the hob and floor. Bending down to pick up the bits, she banged her head on the corner of a cupboard she had forgotten to shut. Simultaneously battles were erupting in the different downstairs rooms. The little Miss Twin Bennets, who up until now had been behaving themselves, sharing their toys and chatting in their unique Spagbolese language, were now at war. The elder twin by 20 minutes was sitting on top of her sister’s head, refusing to let go of her as her rival had stolen both Fifi characters and wasn’t going to give in. Prizing her from the head sitter, affectionately known as Spag, Mrs. Bennet issued a peace treaty and separated the two fighters. Meanwhile the cartwheeling Miss Bennet had promptly crashed into the very table her artistic siblings were working on, wobbling it to the degree it caused glue to spill and felt tip marks to slip.
“Now my picture’s ruined! It’s all your fault Emily!” exclaimed Miss Bennet number three, ripping up her bright design.
“And look what you’ve done!” cried the elder Miss Bennet, not impressed by the acrobat.
In sorting out this scenario, Mrs Bennet completely forgot about the pot of boiling water and the pasta within. A certain burning smell was heading her way. Too late, the pasta was now part of the saucepan. She hurriedly picked up the handle and ushered the pan to the sink, but somehow failed to miss the pair of tiny pink spotty sunglasses on the floor and crushed them underfoot, hurting herself as she did so. The younger twin, to which the mini fashion accessory belonged, didn’t miss a trick and immediately howled, knowing full well what her mother had just done. So now Mrs. Bennet was the accused and Bol had the evidence that she was guilty. Mrs. Bennet felt like the burnt pasta: frazzled. And it was another 90 minutes before her Mr. Darcy arrived to rescue her.
Sometimes the contractions of motherhood came thick and fast; other days they were a little less frequent. Very rarely was there a day in the Bennet household, when the labour pains barely registered on the graph. And of course there were moments when Mrs. Bennet, so sleep deprived, felt like she had taken one too many puffs on the Gas and Air. Yesterday she had bathed Bol and dried her, to be told by Mr. Bennet that she had failed to wash out the shampoo on the little twin’s head! She had spent the day wearing her top inside out and one earring only and the bottle of Chardonnay she had bought for a friend, promptly rolled out of the car and smashed at her feet as she opened the door.
“You think once you’ve had a child, labour stops. But it’s a lie, it continues for years,” she said out loud from her I-feel-sorry-for-myself step. She breathed out as she was taught all those years ago at Parentcraft lessons and made a decision to see if there were some Gas and Air cylinders on EBay she could bid for. She’d then keep one in each room ready for the next contraction.
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