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.
Showing posts with label modern mrs bennet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label modern mrs bennet. Show all posts
Monday, 15 March 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 30 November 2008
The birth anniversary of Modern Mrs Bennet
Saturday, November 29 08
Modern Mrs Bennet was born the moment she looked up at a tiny television screen and saw two fluttering heart beats. It only took a split second, but it sealed her destiny. Mr Bennet looked as grey and shocked as she felt. And she would never forget that look as long as she lived. It was one of those moments when the enormity was such that it was almost hysterically funny. Although neither Mr and Mrs Bennet knew at this stage what gender their unborn 13 week non-identical children were, the possibility of two more girls hung in the air. After all the sex couldn’t be changed – the facts were there, just not yet revealed to the parents concerned.
Recalling this moment, Mrs Bennet remembered the long walk back to the car, crying and shaking in disbelief and awe as Mr Bennet reassured her at every step.
“I didn’t know how I was going to carry one. How am I going to carry two!” she quivered. And yet here she was two years on, with five fantastically different daughters who had made her what she was – a fulfilled, often batty walking zombie. Her tummy muscles may have departed company since their birth, but she had welcomed two more exquisitely different individuals who made her laugh every day. Five daughters stretched her patience, emotions, management and juggling skills, not to mention filling what use to be a somewhat spacious living area for two.
“I don’t think I can have children,” she had once whispered to her husband in the lounge, now full of lively limbs, daily squeals and squabbles. Of course Mr Bennet no longer believed her. Five offspring in seven years was going some. It did open Mr and Mrs Bennet up to certain remarks and mutterings from those around them about not having a television and wasn’t it about time the “problem” was sorted? Mrs Bennet didn’t care what they thought. Her double surprise had not only taught her an invaluable lesson of living a day at a time, they had been the making (or breaking) of her. Without Miss Bennets Four and Five, there wouldn’t be a Modern Mrs Bennet.
She was however entering a new decade of ducking hormones, fleeing to the shed and one which definitely would not involve giving birth.
Modern Mrs Bennet was born the moment she looked up at a tiny television screen and saw two fluttering heart beats. It only took a split second, but it sealed her destiny. Mr Bennet looked as grey and shocked as she felt. And she would never forget that look as long as she lived. It was one of those moments when the enormity was such that it was almost hysterically funny. Although neither Mr and Mrs Bennet knew at this stage what gender their unborn 13 week non-identical children were, the possibility of two more girls hung in the air. After all the sex couldn’t be changed – the facts were there, just not yet revealed to the parents concerned.
Recalling this moment, Mrs Bennet remembered the long walk back to the car, crying and shaking in disbelief and awe as Mr Bennet reassured her at every step.
“I didn’t know how I was going to carry one. How am I going to carry two!” she quivered. And yet here she was two years on, with five fantastically different daughters who had made her what she was – a fulfilled, often batty walking zombie. Her tummy muscles may have departed company since their birth, but she had welcomed two more exquisitely different individuals who made her laugh every day. Five daughters stretched her patience, emotions, management and juggling skills, not to mention filling what use to be a somewhat spacious living area for two.
“I don’t think I can have children,” she had once whispered to her husband in the lounge, now full of lively limbs, daily squeals and squabbles. Of course Mr Bennet no longer believed her. Five offspring in seven years was going some. It did open Mr and Mrs Bennet up to certain remarks and mutterings from those around them about not having a television and wasn’t it about time the “problem” was sorted? Mrs Bennet didn’t care what they thought. Her double surprise had not only taught her an invaluable lesson of living a day at a time, they had been the making (or breaking) of her. Without Miss Bennets Four and Five, there wouldn’t be a Modern Mrs Bennet.
She was however entering a new decade of ducking hormones, fleeing to the shed and one which definitely would not involve giving birth.
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