The placenta ate Mrs Bennet’s brain

Monday, January 26 09

After the birth of her first child, Mrs Bennet was convinced, having caught herself putting semi-skimmed milk in the washing machine instead of fabric conditioner, and trying to pay for her shopping with a library card, that the placenta had in fact eaten her brain.
Four more children later, her suspicions were realised. Having seen the size of the twin’s placenta, and the fact Mrs Bennet could no longer get her children’s names right let alone remember why she had gone up the stairs; she knew it had to be true.
And so it was in this state – with all her brain cells swallowed up – she was attempting to be a student, 23 years after she’d last written an essay or had faced the challenge of digesting so much information. It was a parenting group facilitator’s course, which if she survived, would enable her to lead parenting courses. Not that she had the answers – after all she was on this emotional roller coaster ride along with fellow mums and dads – it was just so she could encourage others, who like her were only seeking to do their best. She was no yummy mummy that’s for sure. She didn’t make her children’s birthday cakes and she didn’t look immaculate. Very often she left the house with a silvery trace of snail-trail snot on her shoulder, a Weetabix hand-print on her knee and a soggy patch on her backside, because she’d sat down on a wet-wipe snowball one of the twins had just made, after pulling the entire contents out of the packet. No, if anything she was a slummy mummy, who lived each moment at a time, invariably sank under the constant demands and occasionally came up for air. Which, incidentally wasn’t pleasant at the moment, because it was full of dust, thanks to the Darcys in the Dirt who were now inside the building.
Mrs Bennet observed her fellow students. They looked so together, so professional and so sure of what they were doing, she felt a bit of a fraud. This was her first day off from child-care since Miss Bennet numbers four and five had arrived. Would they notice if she fell asleep on the table in front of her, surrounded by a sea of delicious chocolate biscuits and her Mr Latte? And would they notice her quietly panicking at the thought of writing assignments and assessments? She drew herself up to her full height of five foot and told herself she could do this. It may well break the recurring and annoying dream she always had at this time of year that she hadn’t revised enough for her history “A” level. She usually woke up trying to work out which of Henry VIII’s wives hadn’t lost their heads.
Numbed, exhausted and completely brain dead after a long day, Mrs Bennet returned home trying to recall which learning theories were what, and flopped in the nearest chair. Miss Megan Bennet instantly presented her with a headless Polly Pocket doll.
“Mummy, look what’s happened to this one? She’s lost her head!” announced her daughter, amused.
“Well, I know how she feels! I just left mine behind at the course I was on. I don’t think I would have been any luckier if I had been one of Henry VIII’s wives!” Mrs Bennet declared.
Miss Megan Bennet looked a bit confused by her mother’s statement, but simply answered:
“Mummy, I am sure Daddy can go back and get it for you!”
Mrs Bennet appreciated her concern, but decided she’d leave it there until the next course session. Perhaps by then it might have recharged!