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.
Showing posts with label bol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bol. Show all posts
Monday, 7 June 2010
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Words hurt sometimes
Friday, June 5 ‘09
“Could you move?” An officious headmistress-like voice boomed above the moans Spag and Bol were making from their chariot. The tone wasn’t polite, it was an order. It implied,” you are invading my space,” “you have no right to be here,” and “take those vile children away from me.”
Mrs Bennet felt like a two-year-old herself, being told off for smearing yoghurt in her hair or flicking peas at her sister. Only her sister was some 30 miles away in Bristol filming and she couldn’t flick her peas that far.
Mrs Bennet was in the local public library looking for a suitable DVD for a girly night in. Mr Bennet was flying off to Iran that afternoon until late Tuesday evening so she had invited a friend round for company. In ten minutes time Miss Kezia Bennet had an appointment with the doctors, a mere 100 yards away. But knowing they always ran late, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to get there any earlier than she needed to. With two little girls to entertain, for what could be 40 minutes in a confined space with sick people, she needed somewhere to go to kill a bit of time. Instead she was killed by words. Spag and Bol started moaning in the children’s section of the library. Note, the children’s section. The lady who came from the ilk of children shouldn’t be seen or heard, was sitting at the far end at a computer with head phones on.
Mrs Bennet had visited this library since she had been in nappies herself, some four decades ago, and had never been spoken to like this. How powerful words were. In the wrong hands they could so easily wound and pull down. Mrs Bennet felt ashamed sometimes to be part of the media. She’d been in the “press” brigade for 22 years, yet what she endeavoured to do was use words to inspire and encourage. It felt like swimming against a tide. She had been told when leaving school, “we don’t think you’re tough enough to be a journalist.” But she had no intention of being tough. You could write truthful stories without upsetting people. Not everyone thought that way. With the spoken word though, it wasn’t so much what was said, it was the way it was said. And here in the library, the three words fired at Mrs Bennet, hurt. Granted, not as much as her head which was still battling infection and feeling the side effects of antibiotics. But surprisingly it brought tears to Mrs Bennet’s eyes. And she did not cry in public. She walked away before her anger rose any higher and produced words she didn’t normally utter. But Mrs Bennet’s anger didn’t last. She was more in shock. It was the “could-you-move” lady who was angry. Angry at little children for being children and conveniently forgetting she had been one once. Apparently it hadn’t been the first time she’d told a mother off or ordered her away from the space she was working in. But in her experience, Mrs Bennet knew there was always a story behind a story. She wasn’t about to use words to cause any greater wounds. Instead she just wondered what the lady’s story was. Three words may not offer much insight into a soul, but they conveyed a deep-felt annoyance towards little people. Mrs Bennet looked affectionately at Spag and Bol, who were unaware they were victims of such wrath. Annoying as they were sometimes, these fearfully-and-wonderfully-made twins – different as day and night – were an endless source of amazement and wonder. Mrs Bennet learnt more about herself through them than any self-help book could offer. She vowed never to become an irritable old woman. She would grow old disgracefully, but she wouldn’t learn to spit or speak rude words to anyone. She’d eat the red hat covering her purple hair if she ever did.
“Could you move?” An officious headmistress-like voice boomed above the moans Spag and Bol were making from their chariot. The tone wasn’t polite, it was an order. It implied,” you are invading my space,” “you have no right to be here,” and “take those vile children away from me.”
Mrs Bennet felt like a two-year-old herself, being told off for smearing yoghurt in her hair or flicking peas at her sister. Only her sister was some 30 miles away in Bristol filming and she couldn’t flick her peas that far.
Mrs Bennet was in the local public library looking for a suitable DVD for a girly night in. Mr Bennet was flying off to Iran that afternoon until late Tuesday evening so she had invited a friend round for company. In ten minutes time Miss Kezia Bennet had an appointment with the doctors, a mere 100 yards away. But knowing they always ran late, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to get there any earlier than she needed to. With two little girls to entertain, for what could be 40 minutes in a confined space with sick people, she needed somewhere to go to kill a bit of time. Instead she was killed by words. Spag and Bol started moaning in the children’s section of the library. Note, the children’s section. The lady who came from the ilk of children shouldn’t be seen or heard, was sitting at the far end at a computer with head phones on.
Mrs Bennet had visited this library since she had been in nappies herself, some four decades ago, and had never been spoken to like this. How powerful words were. In the wrong hands they could so easily wound and pull down. Mrs Bennet felt ashamed sometimes to be part of the media. She’d been in the “press” brigade for 22 years, yet what she endeavoured to do was use words to inspire and encourage. It felt like swimming against a tide. She had been told when leaving school, “we don’t think you’re tough enough to be a journalist.” But she had no intention of being tough. You could write truthful stories without upsetting people. Not everyone thought that way. With the spoken word though, it wasn’t so much what was said, it was the way it was said. And here in the library, the three words fired at Mrs Bennet, hurt. Granted, not as much as her head which was still battling infection and feeling the side effects of antibiotics. But surprisingly it brought tears to Mrs Bennet’s eyes. And she did not cry in public. She walked away before her anger rose any higher and produced words she didn’t normally utter. But Mrs Bennet’s anger didn’t last. She was more in shock. It was the “could-you-move” lady who was angry. Angry at little children for being children and conveniently forgetting she had been one once. Apparently it hadn’t been the first time she’d told a mother off or ordered her away from the space she was working in. But in her experience, Mrs Bennet knew there was always a story behind a story. She wasn’t about to use words to cause any greater wounds. Instead she just wondered what the lady’s story was. Three words may not offer much insight into a soul, but they conveyed a deep-felt annoyance towards little people. Mrs Bennet looked affectionately at Spag and Bol, who were unaware they were victims of such wrath. Annoying as they were sometimes, these fearfully-and-wonderfully-made twins – different as day and night – were an endless source of amazement and wonder. Mrs Bennet learnt more about herself through them than any self-help book could offer. She vowed never to become an irritable old woman. She would grow old disgracefully, but she wouldn’t learn to spit or speak rude words to anyone. She’d eat the red hat covering her purple hair if she ever did.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Bite-size Pemberley is complete
Friday, May 29 ‘09
Mrs Bennet took off her sky blue Crocs and let the new carpet caress her feet. The carpet fitters were still on their knees but for once she was off hers. She seemed only to have prayed one recurring prayer over the past few months - for grace and humour to get her through to this point. It had worked and today marked the start of a new era. The old and the new parts of the Bennet home were finally joined together with a rolling field of beige – opening it up into the spacious place they so needed. The building project had taken as long as Miss Megan and Miss Emily Bennet’s pregnancies and 10 days short of Spag and Bol’s. Mrs Bennet had felt the growing pains, the heartburn, the cravings, and the discomfort of the house gestation and labour. Like in her four pregnancies, she had born the brunt of it, although Mr Bennet had been there at the birth and beyond. Before bite-size Pemberley even began, Mrs Bennet had told him very firmly that if he wanted a wife at the end of it, then they would have to move out while the Darcys in the Dirt moved in. They didn’t move out and after eight months of dust and disruption, Mrs Bennet was still Mr Bennet’s wife.
Leaving Mr Bennet to put up cots and pay the carpet men, she escaped to celebrate in her own quiet way. It couldn’t be a bottle of chilled rose thanks to a dose of antibiotics to get rid of a nasty infection which set in after that problem tooth had been removed. Incidentally Mrs Bennet had now forgiven the tooth fairy, who apparently had relented and left a pound coin underneath her pillow. It wasn’t quite enough to pay for a stool so Mrs Bennet could reach the chutney and chocolate, but it did help pay for her celebratory drink.
Steaming hot Mr Latte after all had become quite a friend during this whole process of change. He didn’t give her any answers, he didn’t judge and he didn’t give her direction. But he did give her time out from Miss Bennet demands and made her sit down, take stock and more importantly escape when there was just no room to run too.
As the big 4-0 was now approaching, Mrs Bennet had wondered if she had experienced some kind of “I-don’t-want-to-be-forty” moment, or whether it was just the pressure of having five children, a major building extension and grappling with her own anger at her dear mother’s cancer issue. As much as she enjoyed having the Darcys in the Dirt around, she was looking forward to enjoying the spaciousness and places to hide when it all got too much. For a while bite-size Pemberley would look a bit odd, as they didn’t have enough money to buy the furniture needed to fill it. But a few cushions would do for now. Her shed was to be called The Space. It would be hers to go whenever she wanted. There was the problem of finding a desk, but as she’d earmarked an old piece of lounge carpet, which the carpet fitters had kindly laid for her, and the battered futon, all she needed was her laptop, some classical music, her laptop, sketchbook and Mr Latte and she would be in her own world for a few minutes – a world where she could just be and dream again. Having five children was such a privilege, but if she was honest at times, it could be a little too much. Her octopus had never arrived, so she did her best to provide a loving arm to which ever Miss Bennet needed it at the time. It did mean that Miss Kezia or Bol was forever hanging in monkey-fashion around her shin while she did so, but although she didn’t like it even Bol knew Mrs Bennet’s love had to go around.
During the whole Pemberley episode, Mrs Bennet had learnt a valuable lesson. That it was vital, while she was attending to the needs of her growing brood, she had to attend to her own needs too. In recent weeks having written about the plethora of artists and creative people living in her area, she had succumbed to her own long-forgotten painting cravings, and gone out and bought some canvases and paints. Now the Darcys in the Dirt were gone and the drilling had stopped, Mrs Bennet could concentrate on being a mother, a friend, a lover and the creative being she knew she was. Life in bite-sized Pemberley would no doubt have its moments of excitement and frustrations, but it would be a house of laughter and life, providing volumes and volumes of memories for her to capture with her pen. So long as she kept off the spicy olives, she could concentrate on bringing up her Bennet production line and not add to it any further.
Mrs Bennet took off her sky blue Crocs and let the new carpet caress her feet. The carpet fitters were still on their knees but for once she was off hers. She seemed only to have prayed one recurring prayer over the past few months - for grace and humour to get her through to this point. It had worked and today marked the start of a new era. The old and the new parts of the Bennet home were finally joined together with a rolling field of beige – opening it up into the spacious place they so needed. The building project had taken as long as Miss Megan and Miss Emily Bennet’s pregnancies and 10 days short of Spag and Bol’s. Mrs Bennet had felt the growing pains, the heartburn, the cravings, and the discomfort of the house gestation and labour. Like in her four pregnancies, she had born the brunt of it, although Mr Bennet had been there at the birth and beyond. Before bite-size Pemberley even began, Mrs Bennet had told him very firmly that if he wanted a wife at the end of it, then they would have to move out while the Darcys in the Dirt moved in. They didn’t move out and after eight months of dust and disruption, Mrs Bennet was still Mr Bennet’s wife.
Leaving Mr Bennet to put up cots and pay the carpet men, she escaped to celebrate in her own quiet way. It couldn’t be a bottle of chilled rose thanks to a dose of antibiotics to get rid of a nasty infection which set in after that problem tooth had been removed. Incidentally Mrs Bennet had now forgiven the tooth fairy, who apparently had relented and left a pound coin underneath her pillow. It wasn’t quite enough to pay for a stool so Mrs Bennet could reach the chutney and chocolate, but it did help pay for her celebratory drink.
Steaming hot Mr Latte after all had become quite a friend during this whole process of change. He didn’t give her any answers, he didn’t judge and he didn’t give her direction. But he did give her time out from Miss Bennet demands and made her sit down, take stock and more importantly escape when there was just no room to run too.
As the big 4-0 was now approaching, Mrs Bennet had wondered if she had experienced some kind of “I-don’t-want-to-be-forty” moment, or whether it was just the pressure of having five children, a major building extension and grappling with her own anger at her dear mother’s cancer issue. As much as she enjoyed having the Darcys in the Dirt around, she was looking forward to enjoying the spaciousness and places to hide when it all got too much. For a while bite-size Pemberley would look a bit odd, as they didn’t have enough money to buy the furniture needed to fill it. But a few cushions would do for now. Her shed was to be called The Space. It would be hers to go whenever she wanted. There was the problem of finding a desk, but as she’d earmarked an old piece of lounge carpet, which the carpet fitters had kindly laid for her, and the battered futon, all she needed was her laptop, some classical music, her laptop, sketchbook and Mr Latte and she would be in her own world for a few minutes – a world where she could just be and dream again. Having five children was such a privilege, but if she was honest at times, it could be a little too much. Her octopus had never arrived, so she did her best to provide a loving arm to which ever Miss Bennet needed it at the time. It did mean that Miss Kezia or Bol was forever hanging in monkey-fashion around her shin while she did so, but although she didn’t like it even Bol knew Mrs Bennet’s love had to go around.
During the whole Pemberley episode, Mrs Bennet had learnt a valuable lesson. That it was vital, while she was attending to the needs of her growing brood, she had to attend to her own needs too. In recent weeks having written about the plethora of artists and creative people living in her area, she had succumbed to her own long-forgotten painting cravings, and gone out and bought some canvases and paints. Now the Darcys in the Dirt were gone and the drilling had stopped, Mrs Bennet could concentrate on being a mother, a friend, a lover and the creative being she knew she was. Life in bite-sized Pemberley would no doubt have its moments of excitement and frustrations, but it would be a house of laughter and life, providing volumes and volumes of memories for her to capture with her pen. So long as she kept off the spicy olives, she could concentrate on bringing up her Bennet production line and not add to it any further.
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