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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Warning low flying tampons

Friday, April 30 2010

Mrs. Bennet knew it was time to get off the treadmill when removing her jumper, the concealed tampons in her pocket flew out and hit the running machine of the male runner in front. Seeing the White bullets scattered on the gym floor and athletic eyes gazing in her direction, Mrs. Bennet brought her run to an abrupt end, leapt over the front of the machine, gathered her essentials and legged it. She had come on that morning and had had no real desire to exercise anyway, apart from trying out her new trainers, so she appreciated the excuse.
As Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets were happily playing in the crèche, she couldn't leave the building in the safe anonymity of the packed car park; so she sank back into the comforts of the gym's leather sofa, clutching her Mr. Latte and prayed the men she had attacked with her bullets wouldn't recognise her with her clothes on!

Conception in the bedroom – not guilty, says Mrs. Bennet

Tuesday, April 13 2010

The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.

Christmas Day Mark Two

Sunday, March 28 10

Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!

The Cot Concert

Monday, March 22 '10
Shouts of joy and laughter which came from the vacinity of the little Miss Twin Bennet's room indicated that the occupants were far from asleep as Mrs. Bennet had been informed by her husband. Both twins were standing upright, oblivious to the fact their mother was nearby. They were obviously up to something and enjoying one another's company and she was intrigued. She stood outside their door, her arms full of clean washing.
"And now it's Bubba's turn!" cried Spag, the older twin by twenty minutes who had never once called her sister by her correct name. Mrs. Bennet firmly believed Kezia would known as Bubba until the twins were in their eighties.
"Tinkle tinkle little star, ow I under what you are..." began Bol.
The audience was silent as the little star sang with delicious beauty, then erupted into applause once the song was finished.
"Well done, Bubba! Well done," responded the X factor judge from the right-hand cot. The contestant in the left-hand cot was delighted.
"Thank you Rosie and now it's your turn!"
And so Rosie began her solo. This time it was "Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer." And again the audience respected the artist and encouraged her accordingly. The unseen agent behind the door smiled. So this was what they were up to: performing their own cot concert. She hated to interupt their fun.Instead she put down the clean washing at their door, and tip-toed away, making a note to sign up these little stars for future entertainment purposes.

Training twin bottoms

Monday, March 15 ‘10

There were two different kinds of bottoms in bite-size Modern Pemberley: the ones who were pro-potty and the ones who, if Mrs. Bennet allowed, would still be wearing nappies until they were 18. Four bottoms were trained. One bottom was not. And the untrained bot was quite clearly very happy to stay that way. She saw no need for it but was quite happy for her twin-bottomed-pal to enjoy her new-found independence.
To be honest Mrs. Bennet didn’t like potty training. Miss Megan Bennet had been somewhat later than her older siblings due to the fact that the massive double bump had prevented her mother from getting anywhere near the floor to a) reach the potty or bottom in question and b) clear up any spillages or deposits. The thought therefore of training two little derrieres at the same time did not fill Mrs. Bennet with joy.
But in the past few weeks something extraordinary happened with Miss Bennet Number Five. The smallest twin, known affectionately in written fashion as Bol, and Gorgeous in spoken form; decided to potty train herself. So efficient was this tiny dot, that not only did she take herself to the potty when she needed to go, but she wiped herself with a toilet roll put down by her side, emptied the contents into the toilet (without spilling any), climbed on to the side of her sister’s no-chance-of-anything-getting-in-here-potty, reached the flush, pressed the button, climbed down and then proceeded to wash her hands using the bath taps, pulled her pants and trousers up and did a little run and jump to end the routine. Mrs. Bennet was stunned by this spurt of independence and hoped that it would rub off onto Miss Bennet Number Four. But so far, nothing. Spag, as this twin was known on paper, Fantastic to her face, showed no sign of following.
“Well done Bubba!” she frequently yelled, accompanied by a clap. Bubba was the affectionate name Rosie gave her sister. Never once had she called her Kezia. Bubba was her name and probably would be for the rest of her life. Using the toilet or potty, dressing herself, walking everywhere and helping Mummy was a Kezia thing, not a Rosie thing. In Rosie’s world, one drew faces and people, used lots of bright coloured felt tips all day long, got pushed around in pushchairs, was dressed by Mummy only and didn’t go anywhere near a bathroom unless lifted into the bath.
These two children may share a birthday and a womb, but they were so refreshingly different that even Mrs. Bennet found it hard to believe they were twins. Miss Kezia was a mini Miss Bennet Number Two and Miss Rosie was a mini Miss Bennet Number One or Three. Miss Emily, daughter number two was Mrs. Bennet’s memory stick. She remembered every detail her mother was likely to forget. And Miss Kezia was fast becoming her back-up or hard-drive.
Only the other day Mrs. Bennet in sorting out the washing had made seven piles ready to take to the corresponding drawers, to discover one had disappeared. Without being told, the pile had been delivered to the correct landing spot by a two-year-old! Mrs. Bennet wasn’t sure how she managed to produce such a young and enthusiastic laundry helper when her older siblings just watched and let their mother get on with it.
“Please watch Kezia and take note everyone!” she remarked. But only Miss Bennet Number Two took notice. Mr. Bennet was now in Japan, so couldn’t. But he left his washing behind anyway.
Mrs. Bennet marvelled at the diversity within her household. Life was never dull. Sitting at her toddler table, drawing perfectly formed people, complete with bodies and head hair, her elder twin was now dressed in a fairy dress with a winter bobble hat on her head while her sister waddled pant-less towards the downstairs bathroom with potty in hand refusing any help. Mrs. Bennet’s nappy days were almost coming to an end. But somehow she knew there were a few more dirty bottoms in store for her yet.

No Octopus for Mrs. Bennet

Friday, March 5 ‘10

Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.

A taste of freedom and wanting more

Friday, January 29 2010

There was something about freedom which was addictive. Mrs. Bennet had had a taste of unclipped wings and now that she was back in the restraints of her four walls and six other Bennets, she wanted to escape and soar through the sky. Not that she wanted to leave them or live without these precious people, it was just ever so often she just needed to retreat to that quiet place where she could go to the toilet in peace, drink a coffee that didn’t go cold and have a meal made for her instead of creatively trying to think how to feed six mouths without one of them inevitably moaning about the final offering.
For the first time in 20 years, Mrs. Bennet had spent the weekend in a plush hotel with her sister. Once they had driven aimlessly around Cardiff city centre trying to find their destination – without the help of Mr. Tom Tom or an up-to-date map – they were quite happy to flop in the hotel’s restaurant with a large glass of wine and relish what hours they had. There was something magical about being sisters. One shared a sense of time and history, stories of loved ones past and present, and adventures and experiences money couldn’t by. As the age gap wasn’t huge, neither sister in this case could remember a time without the other. Everyday life couldn’t be more extreme, yet this constantness, this grounding, this respect and unconditional acceptance was the underlying force which gelled them together – and a mutual interest in art and retail therapy!
In her Tuesday evening art class, Mrs. Bennet’s challenge was to paint an oil landscape with palette knife only. She worked from a photograph she’d taken of Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium. She accentuated the colours, pushing them to the limit and relished in the freedom of using the knife. She wanted it to reflect the freedom she had felt over the weekend. Really she was greedy for more so maybe this would serve as a reminder of what there was if only she could grab a few minutes to appreciate it. Everyone needed a break at times, but what was it about mothers and leaving their children even for a day or two? Why did guilt threaten and hover like a black cloud. Mr. Bennet was more than capable of handling his little ladies. Yes he did experience some inner conflicts and refusals to help in putting toys away, but able he was and kind to let his wife treat his sister-in-law. Mrs. Bennet had felt like a new woman away. She had even been persuaded to buy a dress: an item foreign to her body and wardrobe. Mr. Bennet certainly hadn’t seen his wife’s legs out in public since their wedding day.
It was unfortunate that she arrived home after a storm. Mr. Bennet had lost his cool with his daughters and after asking them several times to tidy up, without success, had at the last resort, scooped every item on the floor up in a black plastic bag and dumped it in the garden. This hadn’t gone down too well with the Bennet girls and somehow in the midst of the uproar Miss Megan Bennet had walked into a door and hit her eye on the door handle.
“So have you been good for Daddy?” Mrs. Bennet asked them after receiving a bundle of cuddles from them all.
“No, not really,” was the honest reply, “And Megan’s got a black eye.”
Six lunch boxes later, various sorting out and clearing away, finding swimming bags, responding to work emails and discovering she had some tight writing deadlines to meet – and that the four legged creatures in the cavity walls were still there - Mrs. Bennet stumbled into bed exhausted and feeling stressed. Her sister had on the other hand gone home to watch a DVD. Somehow, despite the demands of her busy life, Mrs. Bennet knew for the sake of being the best wife, mum, daughter, sister and friend she could be, she had to make time to escape. She had had a taste of freedom and it was a dangerous thing. She wanted more. But she also knew that she needed only to fly a short way away, because the sheer joy of seeing six precious faces beaming at her as she walked through the door, would always entice her to come home despite how noisy and demanding it was.

A-shaking in the bedroom

January 2010

“No offence, Mr. Bennet, but I can’t sleep here any more. I’m moving out. This bedroom’s getting a bit overcrowded,” Mrs. Bennet announced at the beginning of the year. Not the best start to a new decade to leave the marital bed – even if it did mean a decade of absolutely no more child bearing other-wise-I’m-suing-the-NHS - but her actions were entirely justified. There was too much night-time activity taking place in this particular room and it had nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t long before Mr.Bennet joined her. They hadn’t fallen out with each other. But they had fallen out with certain invisible visitors who had taken camp in bite-size Modern Pemberley’s cavity walls and had the disconcerting habit of scurrying around at the back of their heads at three o’clock in the morning. De-nitting five heads was nothing compared to this. Mrs. Bennet knew her informative friend Mr.Google was always excellent when it came to finding out specialised details, but she never imagined him having to help Mr. Bennet identify droppings found in the loft. Mr. Bennet looked shaken with Mr.Google’s diagnosis. It wasn’t mice. It was something bigger.
“We better camp out in the lounge,” he decided.
“What do we tell the children? That we wanted a sleep over?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“Just say we fancied a change. Anything, but don’t mention the R word. They’ll never sleep at night,” was his reply.
Mr. Bennet was right of course: ironically confirmed the next evening by the eldest Miss Bennet, who had just happened to be reading The Railway Children.
“I’ve just read the first chapter Mummy!” she declared.
“And…what do you think?”
“It’s great Mummy, until the children have to move to the country and Roberta hears all this noise and she’s told it’s the rats in the cottage walls. That must have been really awful. I didn’t like reading that,” she explained.
Mrs. Bennet choked, trying to stifle a laugh and not quite believing the timeliness of her daughter’s choice of book.
Thankfully the elder children were out of the way when the Rat/Mouse Man paid a visit.
“Expect a lot of activity in the next few days, because they’ll get very excited,” he said. “I think you’ve only got mice by the way,” he added reassuringly, before adding: “but there could be a rat among them.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet might not want any more babies in the coming years, but it seemed someone else was getting a little too passionate in their bedroom. And the family behind the walls was growing a little too fast for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s liking!