Friday, September 25 '09
Mr. Bennet did not yet know it, but Mrs. Bennet had banned him from any future D.I.Y efforts which may be needed in future at their modern bite-size Pemberley. When a curtain rail fell down in Miss Bennet Number One’s bedroom, hitting the bed with such force it made Mrs. Bennet jump, she vowed that was enough. If Miss Naomi Bennet had been asleep at the time, she would now be suffering from a severe headache. Only a few days ago, Miss Bennet Number Three had experienced an avalanche of coats after tying to reach her fleece. The entire rail fell off the wall, smattering its contents on the five-year-old. Mrs. Bennet now seriously considered employing a Darcy in the Dirt on a permanent basis. Book shelves were also a taboo subject if it involved a hammer and nail. Whilst breastfeeding Miss Bennet Number One on the marital bed, some nine years ago, the shelf behind her collapsed, sending the Chronicles of the 20th century hurtling in the cow's direction. It narrowly missed both mother and child by inches.
A decade on, today was also significant. It marked the end of Mr. Bennet’s D.I.Y exploits, no matter how simple.
Friday, 25 September 2009
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
The Mummy’s in a bad mood syndrome
Wednesday, September 23 ‘09
“How would you feel Megan if I kept telling tales of you?” asked an indignant Miss Bennet Number Two.
“Sad,” replied a quietly spoken Miss Bennet Number Three, who after a long pause, added: “But then I feel sad because you hit me!”
Most people had an alarm clock. Mrs Bennet had squabbles as her new-day welcome. After the first ten minutes she just knew it wasn’t going to be an easy few hours. Her stomach was knotted, her head pounded and she did not want to face an hour of battling against wills, detangling hair and scraping squashed cornflakes and jammy toast off the floor or walls. She felt stressed. Mr Bennet had casually informed her last night that he was off to Singapore for five days. His announcement came at a moment when her resources were empty, her brain was scrambled and her body exhausted. She was in a season of change. Not THE change thankfully, but never-the-less, there were various things in her new decade calendar which took her out of her comfort zone farther than she had anticipated. She had embarked on leading her first parenting course, started a year’s art and design course on a Tuesday evening to see if there was anything creative left in her after 22 years and the twins had driven off with a childminder for the first time. Having interviewed some 85 artists over the past 18 months, Mrs Bennet had felt inspired and had decided to throw herself back into her art and this morning was the first of a 10 week pastel course. She thought it would be fun to play about with colour as her young children did so freely. But she was so uptight inside, all Mrs Bennet kept thinking was: “what am I doing here and why did I come?” By lunchtime she bitterly regretted plunging into anything new. The efforts needed to get to such a course, whether it was this one or the Tuesday evening, was such that she felt so frazzled by the time she arrived, it took her almost the entire class duration to unwind. Surrounded by those who clearly knew what a pastel was and had either been to art college, painted regularly or taught art, she wanted to leave before she had even made a mark on the page.
It didn’t help that she was feeling bad at shouting at the Miss Bennets and blew her top because one of them refused to look for a pair of white socks. They had absolutely no sense of urgency to get out of the house and quite frankly Mrs Bennet was fed up in shepherding them to the boarding gate. Like a kettle she boiled over, steam pouring from her nostrils and words flowing uncontrollably. She then suddenly stopped, fell to her knees, burst into tears and apologized profusely to the little Miss Bennets, who immediately threw their arms around her. She, now the child; they the adults.
This morning, the boarding gate was crammed with five lunchboxes, nappy bags, book bags, art bag, shoes, three swimming kits and a gym bag – in case she could run away afterwards. Despite this, due to the emotions bubbling within the Mummy, it was not the smoothest of exits. It was hardly surprising then that colour didn’t flow. Mrs Bennet wanted to wear black, scribble all over her pictures and run away. What parent was she to lead a parenting course? And why did she think she could be an artist? Mrs Bennet was clearly not having a good day.
“How would you feel Megan if I kept telling tales of you?” asked an indignant Miss Bennet Number Two.
“Sad,” replied a quietly spoken Miss Bennet Number Three, who after a long pause, added: “But then I feel sad because you hit me!”
Most people had an alarm clock. Mrs Bennet had squabbles as her new-day welcome. After the first ten minutes she just knew it wasn’t going to be an easy few hours. Her stomach was knotted, her head pounded and she did not want to face an hour of battling against wills, detangling hair and scraping squashed cornflakes and jammy toast off the floor or walls. She felt stressed. Mr Bennet had casually informed her last night that he was off to Singapore for five days. His announcement came at a moment when her resources were empty, her brain was scrambled and her body exhausted. She was in a season of change. Not THE change thankfully, but never-the-less, there were various things in her new decade calendar which took her out of her comfort zone farther than she had anticipated. She had embarked on leading her first parenting course, started a year’s art and design course on a Tuesday evening to see if there was anything creative left in her after 22 years and the twins had driven off with a childminder for the first time. Having interviewed some 85 artists over the past 18 months, Mrs Bennet had felt inspired and had decided to throw herself back into her art and this morning was the first of a 10 week pastel course. She thought it would be fun to play about with colour as her young children did so freely. But she was so uptight inside, all Mrs Bennet kept thinking was: “what am I doing here and why did I come?” By lunchtime she bitterly regretted plunging into anything new. The efforts needed to get to such a course, whether it was this one or the Tuesday evening, was such that she felt so frazzled by the time she arrived, it took her almost the entire class duration to unwind. Surrounded by those who clearly knew what a pastel was and had either been to art college, painted regularly or taught art, she wanted to leave before she had even made a mark on the page.
It didn’t help that she was feeling bad at shouting at the Miss Bennets and blew her top because one of them refused to look for a pair of white socks. They had absolutely no sense of urgency to get out of the house and quite frankly Mrs Bennet was fed up in shepherding them to the boarding gate. Like a kettle she boiled over, steam pouring from her nostrils and words flowing uncontrollably. She then suddenly stopped, fell to her knees, burst into tears and apologized profusely to the little Miss Bennets, who immediately threw their arms around her. She, now the child; they the adults.
This morning, the boarding gate was crammed with five lunchboxes, nappy bags, book bags, art bag, shoes, three swimming kits and a gym bag – in case she could run away afterwards. Despite this, due to the emotions bubbling within the Mummy, it was not the smoothest of exits. It was hardly surprising then that colour didn’t flow. Mrs Bennet wanted to wear black, scribble all over her pictures and run away. What parent was she to lead a parenting course? And why did she think she could be an artist? Mrs Bennet was clearly not having a good day.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
The “But Mummy I have to have it now” syndrome
Monday, September 21 ‘09
Having felt a deep sense of achievement in watching the eldest Miss Bennet get dressed, fed, hair and teeth brushed without so much as a repeat request, Mrs Bennet felt somewhat relaxed as she encouraged her flock to round up ready for the morning exit. A check list on Miss Bennet Number One’s desk with a tick box next to each simple instruction including get up, get dressed, put on clean white socks and so on; seemed to do the trick. The pre-teen happily ticked her boxes.
All was going too smoothly. Miss Bennet Number Two was voluntarily popping up toast and taking orders from her siblings; twins Spag and Bol were chuckling over a private joke which involved a couple of plastic play people and Mrs Bennet was ahead with the pigtail ritual. At eight o’clock, she was two heads down, three to go. She was dressed, had every book bag, shoe and lunch box, lined up in military precision at the boarding gate. And so far, nothing had been removed from a wandering Spag or Bol.
Thirty five minutes later three little school girls suddenly remember they have to take something really important into class and it must be today. The morning army camp had no room in its schedule for forgotten items, so peace was soon quickly escaping out the front door, instead of the six bodies inside.
“Mummy, I need to have a photo of me as a baby. We’re looking at growth today. Can you get me one so I can take it in?” cried an innocent five-year-old, oblivious of her mother’s rising stress levels.
“And you haven’t got my Indian top and trousers from the dressing up bag Mummy, and I wanted to take it today,” remembered the elder Miss Bennet who was studying Indian culture and custom at school.
“Oh, and I need a piece of fruit to take so we can paint it in art this morning. It has to be unusual and I don’t want anything we have got here, they’re all too boring,” chipped in Miss Bennet number three.
“Great,” thought Mrs Bennet, frantically trying to remember where Megan’s baby photo was and had they got time to nip into a shop and buy a quirky fruit?
Baby photo sorted, the flock was allowed beyond the fence; the shepherd following, guiding them with her spoken rod. Thankfully as Miss Bennet Number One had followed her check list to the tee, there were five valuable minutes spare – just enough time for Mrs Bennet to pull up outside her favourite supermarket, rush in and buy two coconuts for a £1. As she hadn’t managed to retrieve the Indian outfit from the dust heap under Mr Bennet’s side of the bed, she handed Miss Bennet Number One the other coconut. She too was studying the compositions and different shapes within a still life, so Mrs Bennet’s bunch of coconuts was the hit of the morning.
Once the three older sheep were safely in green uniform pastures and Spag and Bol were securely strapped in the Scooby Doo van, Mrs Bennet slumped over the steering wheel relieved the morning scrum was over. She glanced in the driver’s mirror. Make-up was smeared like war paint all over her left cheek. She hadn’t had chance to do a bathroom check in the rush to leave the house. No one but no one in the playground had said anything about her ridiculous look. Or was it because she always looked like that first thing in the morning?
Having felt a deep sense of achievement in watching the eldest Miss Bennet get dressed, fed, hair and teeth brushed without so much as a repeat request, Mrs Bennet felt somewhat relaxed as she encouraged her flock to round up ready for the morning exit. A check list on Miss Bennet Number One’s desk with a tick box next to each simple instruction including get up, get dressed, put on clean white socks and so on; seemed to do the trick. The pre-teen happily ticked her boxes.
All was going too smoothly. Miss Bennet Number Two was voluntarily popping up toast and taking orders from her siblings; twins Spag and Bol were chuckling over a private joke which involved a couple of plastic play people and Mrs Bennet was ahead with the pigtail ritual. At eight o’clock, she was two heads down, three to go. She was dressed, had every book bag, shoe and lunch box, lined up in military precision at the boarding gate. And so far, nothing had been removed from a wandering Spag or Bol.
Thirty five minutes later three little school girls suddenly remember they have to take something really important into class and it must be today. The morning army camp had no room in its schedule for forgotten items, so peace was soon quickly escaping out the front door, instead of the six bodies inside.
“Mummy, I need to have a photo of me as a baby. We’re looking at growth today. Can you get me one so I can take it in?” cried an innocent five-year-old, oblivious of her mother’s rising stress levels.
“And you haven’t got my Indian top and trousers from the dressing up bag Mummy, and I wanted to take it today,” remembered the elder Miss Bennet who was studying Indian culture and custom at school.
“Oh, and I need a piece of fruit to take so we can paint it in art this morning. It has to be unusual and I don’t want anything we have got here, they’re all too boring,” chipped in Miss Bennet number three.
“Great,” thought Mrs Bennet, frantically trying to remember where Megan’s baby photo was and had they got time to nip into a shop and buy a quirky fruit?
Baby photo sorted, the flock was allowed beyond the fence; the shepherd following, guiding them with her spoken rod. Thankfully as Miss Bennet Number One had followed her check list to the tee, there were five valuable minutes spare – just enough time for Mrs Bennet to pull up outside her favourite supermarket, rush in and buy two coconuts for a £1. As she hadn’t managed to retrieve the Indian outfit from the dust heap under Mr Bennet’s side of the bed, she handed Miss Bennet Number One the other coconut. She too was studying the compositions and different shapes within a still life, so Mrs Bennet’s bunch of coconuts was the hit of the morning.
Once the three older sheep were safely in green uniform pastures and Spag and Bol were securely strapped in the Scooby Doo van, Mrs Bennet slumped over the steering wheel relieved the morning scrum was over. She glanced in the driver’s mirror. Make-up was smeared like war paint all over her left cheek. She hadn’t had chance to do a bathroom check in the rush to leave the house. No one but no one in the playground had said anything about her ridiculous look. Or was it because she always looked like that first thing in the morning?
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Getting Past Go - The Avalanche Effect
Thursday, September 17 ‘09
Having accepted that passing go was an impossible mission; out of sheer curiosity and for her own amusement Mrs Bennet decided to take note of the unforeseen daily factors against her. Of course there were six factors before anything else came into the equation: a harassed Mummy Bennet and five little Miss Bennets who all needed clothing, feeding, teeth and hair brushing, and finally shoeing - both on their feet and out the door. Having had a few years of school run experience, Mrs Bennet knew it made absolutely no difference as to what time she got up. If she was up at 6am, with all the shoes, coats, book bags, nappy bags and lunch boxes packed and lined up in orderly fashion in the taking off pad – the hallway – she would invariably still be late because at the 11th hour a distraught Miss Bennet insisted she had to have something really urgently and that it had to be found there and then or else her world would fall apart.
Today all was going well. Mrs Bennet had been given a “good girl” sticker for not raising her voice and all five Miss Bennets were in the boarding gate awaiting their flight. It was Mrs Bennet who had forgotten something – vital toiletries – and sped upstairs to find them. With the sheep dog now out of sight, the younger Miss Bennets began to wander and the middle one started to look for a coat.
Whizzing from upstairs, into the lounge and through the kitchen to pick up a bottle of water as she went, Mrs Bennet returned to the boarding gate to find three of her flock missing. One was pulling out all the blankets ready to set up a home, the other climbing on a chair ready to start colouring. A cry from the walk-in cupboard indicated the whereabouts of the other.
“Help Mummy, help!”
Following the shout, Mrs Bennet found her five-year-old hidden under an avalanche of coats. The entire coat rail had fallen off the wall and its contents had spewed onto the unsuspecting child. A bewildered face balancing skew-whiff spectacles on the nose looked up at her.
“I didn’t do anything Mummy. I only wanted my coat not everyone else’s!” she declared.
Wishing the Darcys in the Dirt were back on the scene and wishing Mr Bennet was good at DIY, Mrs Bennet set her child free and spent the next five minutes hunting out matching shoes from underneath the soft mountain.
Five minutes she didn’t have.
But it wasn’t just the clothes avalanche preventing her passing go. The recycle van drove into her close, just as she was trying to reverse off the drive. They had no time for mothers on a mission. They weren’t going to budge until every green box was emptied. And as Scooby Doo van had a rather large bottom and couldn’t squeeze through the six zero space available it had to sit motionless as the minutes slipped miserably by. Mrs Bennet had failed to pass go yet again through no fault of her own.
Having accepted that passing go was an impossible mission; out of sheer curiosity and for her own amusement Mrs Bennet decided to take note of the unforeseen daily factors against her. Of course there were six factors before anything else came into the equation: a harassed Mummy Bennet and five little Miss Bennets who all needed clothing, feeding, teeth and hair brushing, and finally shoeing - both on their feet and out the door. Having had a few years of school run experience, Mrs Bennet knew it made absolutely no difference as to what time she got up. If she was up at 6am, with all the shoes, coats, book bags, nappy bags and lunch boxes packed and lined up in orderly fashion in the taking off pad – the hallway – she would invariably still be late because at the 11th hour a distraught Miss Bennet insisted she had to have something really urgently and that it had to be found there and then or else her world would fall apart.
Today all was going well. Mrs Bennet had been given a “good girl” sticker for not raising her voice and all five Miss Bennets were in the boarding gate awaiting their flight. It was Mrs Bennet who had forgotten something – vital toiletries – and sped upstairs to find them. With the sheep dog now out of sight, the younger Miss Bennets began to wander and the middle one started to look for a coat.
Whizzing from upstairs, into the lounge and through the kitchen to pick up a bottle of water as she went, Mrs Bennet returned to the boarding gate to find three of her flock missing. One was pulling out all the blankets ready to set up a home, the other climbing on a chair ready to start colouring. A cry from the walk-in cupboard indicated the whereabouts of the other.
“Help Mummy, help!”
Following the shout, Mrs Bennet found her five-year-old hidden under an avalanche of coats. The entire coat rail had fallen off the wall and its contents had spewed onto the unsuspecting child. A bewildered face balancing skew-whiff spectacles on the nose looked up at her.
“I didn’t do anything Mummy. I only wanted my coat not everyone else’s!” she declared.
Wishing the Darcys in the Dirt were back on the scene and wishing Mr Bennet was good at DIY, Mrs Bennet set her child free and spent the next five minutes hunting out matching shoes from underneath the soft mountain.
Five minutes she didn’t have.
But it wasn’t just the clothes avalanche preventing her passing go. The recycle van drove into her close, just as she was trying to reverse off the drive. They had no time for mothers on a mission. They weren’t going to budge until every green box was emptied. And as Scooby Doo van had a rather large bottom and couldn’t squeeze through the six zero space available it had to sit motionless as the minutes slipped miserably by. Mrs Bennet had failed to pass go yet again through no fault of her own.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Getting past go
Monday, September 14 '09
Mrs Bennet realised she would never win the game of monopoly when it came to the school run. If she could get past go – the front door – without shouting, tripping over a piece of Lego or Barbie shoe, returning several times to retrieve a forgotten lunchbox, book bag or coat; she might, just might, earn her £200. Well ok, five minutes with soothing Mr Latte would do. But this morning – the 12th morning since the new school term had started – she realised that winning was impossible. Winning was an illusion. Instead she felt she was being sent to gaol for bad behaviour.
“I was a nice person before I had children. I never shouted and I thought I had patience,” she told the five little Bennets as they were finally strapped into the car and therefore couldn’t move. She was cross with them, but even crosser with herself. Quite frankly she was fed up with hearing the sound of her own voice.
“How many times have I asked you to get your socks on? Yes you do have to get up! No you can’t wear that to school! Will you please get off Kezia’s head Rosie, and where oh where is the brush?”
Set to music, the monotonous droning moans of Mrs Bennet’s firing orders at her unruly soldiers wouldn’t sound so bad. In fact a bit of Mars by Holtz in the background could prove quite atmospheric. But long were the days when the soft sounds of classical music serenaded her as she dressed – by herself. How had she turned into such a “shouty” individual? Somehow she had managed to throw any parenting skills she had kidded herself she had, down the plughole along with the congealed blobs of toothpaste which always seemed to get spat out and stuck to the sink. One morning she’d found the white goo on the floor, wall and glass panel of the shower unit and had to scrape it off with a knife.
“No time for toothpaste checks this morning,” mumbled Mrs Bennet, as she mentally went through her check list.
“Three book bags, check. Three lunch bags, check. One nappy bag with at least two nappies in, check. One handbag with phone to call for help, check. One Mummy, check. Five children, check. Five coats on children, check. Right shoes on right children, check. Six sets of teeth cleaned? No? Three out of six will have to do, check. Six heads brushed? Looks as if two have, fingers will have to do with rest, check. Can’t afford to stay in house any longer. We really are late now. Where are the keys? Not on hook where they should be. Last seen rattling in a tiny hand heading towards dolls house. After quick search, keys are found in bath with a toy goat. Brain? Not sure it can be found so easily. Most of it got eaten by three placentas followed by an oversized version due to twins. No hope then. Still it doesn’t excuse shouting behaviour. Must try and be more organised, not work so late at night and get up earlier, preferably BEFORE children.”
Check list complete, the children were strapped in the Scooby Doo van, leaving the house to sigh in beautiful peace. Mrs Bennet was tempted to stay there. But onwards to school she must, even if slightly late. She may not get her £200 this morning, but she could do with picking up a Chance card. It might take her to Mayfair. But Mrs Bennet knew school runs didn’t go there.
Mrs Bennet realised she would never win the game of monopoly when it came to the school run. If she could get past go – the front door – without shouting, tripping over a piece of Lego or Barbie shoe, returning several times to retrieve a forgotten lunchbox, book bag or coat; she might, just might, earn her £200. Well ok, five minutes with soothing Mr Latte would do. But this morning – the 12th morning since the new school term had started – she realised that winning was impossible. Winning was an illusion. Instead she felt she was being sent to gaol for bad behaviour.
“I was a nice person before I had children. I never shouted and I thought I had patience,” she told the five little Bennets as they were finally strapped into the car and therefore couldn’t move. She was cross with them, but even crosser with herself. Quite frankly she was fed up with hearing the sound of her own voice.
“How many times have I asked you to get your socks on? Yes you do have to get up! No you can’t wear that to school! Will you please get off Kezia’s head Rosie, and where oh where is the brush?”
Set to music, the monotonous droning moans of Mrs Bennet’s firing orders at her unruly soldiers wouldn’t sound so bad. In fact a bit of Mars by Holtz in the background could prove quite atmospheric. But long were the days when the soft sounds of classical music serenaded her as she dressed – by herself. How had she turned into such a “shouty” individual? Somehow she had managed to throw any parenting skills she had kidded herself she had, down the plughole along with the congealed blobs of toothpaste which always seemed to get spat out and stuck to the sink. One morning she’d found the white goo on the floor, wall and glass panel of the shower unit and had to scrape it off with a knife.
“No time for toothpaste checks this morning,” mumbled Mrs Bennet, as she mentally went through her check list.
“Three book bags, check. Three lunch bags, check. One nappy bag with at least two nappies in, check. One handbag with phone to call for help, check. One Mummy, check. Five children, check. Five coats on children, check. Right shoes on right children, check. Six sets of teeth cleaned? No? Three out of six will have to do, check. Six heads brushed? Looks as if two have, fingers will have to do with rest, check. Can’t afford to stay in house any longer. We really are late now. Where are the keys? Not on hook where they should be. Last seen rattling in a tiny hand heading towards dolls house. After quick search, keys are found in bath with a toy goat. Brain? Not sure it can be found so easily. Most of it got eaten by three placentas followed by an oversized version due to twins. No hope then. Still it doesn’t excuse shouting behaviour. Must try and be more organised, not work so late at night and get up earlier, preferably BEFORE children.”
Check list complete, the children were strapped in the Scooby Doo van, leaving the house to sigh in beautiful peace. Mrs Bennet was tempted to stay there. But onwards to school she must, even if slightly late. She may not get her £200 this morning, but she could do with picking up a Chance card. It might take her to Mayfair. But Mrs Bennet knew school runs didn’t go there.
Monday, 7 September 2009
Spag and Bol’s t-towel and trolley war
Monday, September 7 ‘09
Sibling squabbles were frequent in the Bennet household despite the fact there were now more rooms to escape to. Mrs Bennet dived into the shoe cupboard now and then so she didn’t hear the “Mummy she hit me!” and “And she deliberately scribbled on my drawing!” Mrs Bennet realised the quarrelling was part of her life for the foreseeable future. The more children you have, the more likely at some part in the day, one combination or another will fall out, sit on each other, stick a tongue out or want the same toy/book at the same time.
Spag and Bol, the little Twin Bennets were having a tug of war with a t-towel. Sitting in their respective blue booster seats with matching brown beards due to a chocolate pudding indulgence, they both wanted to hold the rather faded, holey t-towel. Spag (alias Rosie), being somewhat bigger all round was winning as Bol (alias Kezia) was being lifted a few inches out of her chair, yet refusing to let go. The shouts were getting louder in the dining room. The giggles were getting louder in the adjoining, open plan kitchen. Mr and Mrs Bennet, amused by Miss Bennet Number Four and Five’s sudden fascination for a scraggly t-towel, were quite enjoying the spectacle; waiting in the wings to rescue the smaller twin who looked like she was about to fly across the room with a blue plastic seat attached to her bottom. She may have lost in strength, but she made up for it in cheek and charm. And the one nil down score only sought to give her extra determination to get even with her 20-minute-older sister.
The revenge came during a shopping episode. Mrs Bennet, having failed in her search for a double-seated trolley, decided to walk her toddlers in with the help of Jannie, her lovely mum. This was fine until Bol, with her extra vigilant eyes, spotted a mini trolley parked in the entrance ready for potential two-year-old shoppers. She ran to it, claimed it as her own, and grinned victoriously at Spag, who realising there wasn’t a trolley for her, threw her faithful battered and well-loved rabbit on the floor in disgust and herself down with it. Mrs Bennet wanted to leave them to it; pretend they didn’t belong to her and walk out. Only they did belong to her and the supermarket staff knew they did too. Bol had got her revenge. And despite pleas from both Mrs Bennet and Jannie; and screams from Spag, Bol refused to let go of the said trolley and pushed it round the aisles…and occasionally into people….with a vice grip.
Whilst Mrs Bennet understood her elder twin’s upset at the unfairness of life, she couldn’t magic another tiny trolley to appear and neither could the staff. Trying to reason with a two-year-old who was sobbing was like trying to find a minute precious ring stone in the midst of a batch of bread dough. As Mrs Bennet knew from bitter experience, you just had to wait until cooking time was over.
Half an hour later, another trolley was delivered to a now pacified twin who was sitting quietly, trying to get a straw into a bottle of water in the café area. Mrs Bennet was taking refuge in her forgotten friend Mr Latte, who on occasions such as this had become a firm companion for Jannie too. The war had ended. Peace between the twins was momentarily made. And side by side they pushed their matching trolleys up the wide aisles, chatting amicably to one another, creating smiles and not too much havoc as they went. Although Mrs Bennet was sure she didn’t put Cock-a-leekie or Oxtail soup on her shopping list! The twin tug-o-war score: one each to Spag and Bol. Mummy nil.
Sibling squabbles were frequent in the Bennet household despite the fact there were now more rooms to escape to. Mrs Bennet dived into the shoe cupboard now and then so she didn’t hear the “Mummy she hit me!” and “And she deliberately scribbled on my drawing!” Mrs Bennet realised the quarrelling was part of her life for the foreseeable future. The more children you have, the more likely at some part in the day, one combination or another will fall out, sit on each other, stick a tongue out or want the same toy/book at the same time.
Spag and Bol, the little Twin Bennets were having a tug of war with a t-towel. Sitting in their respective blue booster seats with matching brown beards due to a chocolate pudding indulgence, they both wanted to hold the rather faded, holey t-towel. Spag (alias Rosie), being somewhat bigger all round was winning as Bol (alias Kezia) was being lifted a few inches out of her chair, yet refusing to let go. The shouts were getting louder in the dining room. The giggles were getting louder in the adjoining, open plan kitchen. Mr and Mrs Bennet, amused by Miss Bennet Number Four and Five’s sudden fascination for a scraggly t-towel, were quite enjoying the spectacle; waiting in the wings to rescue the smaller twin who looked like she was about to fly across the room with a blue plastic seat attached to her bottom. She may have lost in strength, but she made up for it in cheek and charm. And the one nil down score only sought to give her extra determination to get even with her 20-minute-older sister.
The revenge came during a shopping episode. Mrs Bennet, having failed in her search for a double-seated trolley, decided to walk her toddlers in with the help of Jannie, her lovely mum. This was fine until Bol, with her extra vigilant eyes, spotted a mini trolley parked in the entrance ready for potential two-year-old shoppers. She ran to it, claimed it as her own, and grinned victoriously at Spag, who realising there wasn’t a trolley for her, threw her faithful battered and well-loved rabbit on the floor in disgust and herself down with it. Mrs Bennet wanted to leave them to it; pretend they didn’t belong to her and walk out. Only they did belong to her and the supermarket staff knew they did too. Bol had got her revenge. And despite pleas from both Mrs Bennet and Jannie; and screams from Spag, Bol refused to let go of the said trolley and pushed it round the aisles…and occasionally into people….with a vice grip.
Whilst Mrs Bennet understood her elder twin’s upset at the unfairness of life, she couldn’t magic another tiny trolley to appear and neither could the staff. Trying to reason with a two-year-old who was sobbing was like trying to find a minute precious ring stone in the midst of a batch of bread dough. As Mrs Bennet knew from bitter experience, you just had to wait until cooking time was over.
Half an hour later, another trolley was delivered to a now pacified twin who was sitting quietly, trying to get a straw into a bottle of water in the café area. Mrs Bennet was taking refuge in her forgotten friend Mr Latte, who on occasions such as this had become a firm companion for Jannie too. The war had ended. Peace between the twins was momentarily made. And side by side they pushed their matching trolleys up the wide aisles, chatting amicably to one another, creating smiles and not too much havoc as they went. Although Mrs Bennet was sure she didn’t put Cock-a-leekie or Oxtail soup on her shopping list! The twin tug-o-war score: one each to Spag and Bol. Mummy nil.
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