Monday, May 11 ‘09
“Urghhhhhh,” cried Mrs Bennet, biting into her cheese and chutney sandwich. It was not chutney. It was marmalade, which she didn’t like at the best of times, let alone mixed with cheese. It was like drinking what she thought was coffee and discovering it was tea. At least she liked tea. The error was a consequence of not knowing where anything was in her kitchen. Or more accurately not being able to reach the top shelf in her fridge, which now stood several inches higher than it had done in the old kitchen. Over the past few days, cupboards and appliances had been ripped from one set of walls (now resembling an abstract painting mixed with ceramics), to a new set, pristine clean and canvas blank. Drills and banging had caused the little Miss Bennets to squeal in fright. While Miss Kezia climbed as high as she could up her mother’s legs, Miss Rosie threw herself to the floor as if ducking a bomb. It may be the last chapter in the bite-size Pemberley building project but it was proving the messiest and seemed to have an impact on every ounce of living space. Mrs Bennet felt the last eight months had been like a moving expedition. At least if you moved house it only took a day. This had seemed such a long exhausting process. Yet, she knew it was almost at an end. Once the Darcys in the Dirt had picked up their tools and rubble – currently in what was the garage, but soon to be the children’s playroom – then, and only then could the house start reverting back to being a home. Something it hadn’t been for three years, ever since they first went on the market and the bright coloured walls had been “magnolified,” meaning as a result family photos had been put away. Two children later, they still hadn’t returned due to major disruption, dust and general mayhem.
But time was against the builders. They had just eleven days to finish everything before the carpets were laid ready for Mr No Personality surveyor to return to check bite-size Pemberley was finished. If it wasn't, the building society would not release the money needed to pay for it. At present, alongside discarded books, dolls, plastic animals, hair bands, drawings, scribbles, topless felt tip pens and more worryingly Barbie dolls, there were chainsaws, nails, brackets, screws, hammers, and old kitchen parts in the rooms which weren’t yet finished. Outside it was Skip City. The Bennet’s skip was overflowing, as was the one sitting on next-door’s drive, currently full of rubble ready for a conservatory which had once adjoined the Bennet house. It had once acted as a creative hot house for three eager little artists and occasionally a dining room, when the table was clear enough to see what was being eaten.
Where the conservatory used to be, now stood the new dining room, an official part of the bite-size Pemberley, meaning the temperature was just right for the wife in both summer and winter. Mr Bennet was currently sitting at the table, poured over his laptop, working late yet again. Mrs Bennet wasn’t talking to him right now. He couldn’t engage in conversation anyway and had just told her he would either be flying to Dubai or Iran in the coming week. She really hoped it wouldn’t be the latter. Not only was it worryingly dangerous, but by the time he got his necessary visa, it would mean the trip would clash nicely with half-term and his wife’s mood.
She had noticed since Jannie’s good news, that she had returned to her faithful Mr Latte. She could enjoy his company again. It gave her an excuse to get away from her house, which didn't feel her own right now and as she hadn’t been able to cry in front of the Darcy’s in the Dirt throughout the Jannie worry, she knew it would come pouring out at some point. She just hoped it wouldn’t be in the dentist chair again. She was due to have a tooth out, due to an abscess on Thursday, and being a whimp in the presence of dentists, had every reason to cry. But perhaps the Tooth Fairy might leave her some money – enough to buy a stool so she could at least reach the top shelves and be able to check the jar labels. Oh, and to make sure Mr Bennet hadn’t stored any secret supply of chocolate which he knew would be out of her reach. Of course Mrs Bennet blamed him for the marmalade. He was after all the only one who liked it.
Perhaps she could make him a round of cheese and marmalade sandwiches for work tomorrow and see if he noticed!
Monday, 11 May 2009
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Ghosts of kitchens past
Thursday, April 30 09
Ghosts of kitchens past echoed around the walls. It made an interesting sight and one which, in places, required a pair of shades. Whatever had possessed her to paint a kitchen sunshine yellow and sky blue? In her defence, it was a decade ago. An era of rag rolling, sponging and vivid colours which clashed, yet no one had been brave enough to admit their effects were painful to the eye. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to offend those who considered them beautiful. At the time, being a creative sort, Mrs Bennet had given her all. Every part of the house had been touched by turquoises, terracotta reds, yellow, vivid blues and sea greens. The gaudy yellow – which had been hidden these past three years by grown-up, sophisticated beige kitchen units – was now once again exposed. Mrs Bennet remembered painting it to hide the mustard offering the owners before her had left behind.
It was 10 years ago. At 29, she hadn’t known what pregnancy meant, hadn’t known her stomach would, over the coming decade, stretch like a contortionist and provide the nurturing home for five offspring. Now at 39, waiting to enter another era, she didn’t like to think what was before her. She was older, greyer, and wrinklier but she had learnt the valuable lesson of living one day at a time. Yet the last seven weeks of watching, waiting and feeling her mother’s pain, had taken its toll. If the biopsy results weren’t good, she wasn’t sure how she could face tomorrow let alone the next 10 years. The unsightly yellow was just that, unsightly, far too bright for her current situation.
The Darcys in the Dirt were dismantling units and moving them to the back of the house. Ironically that morning, the kitchen had looked immaculate and the tidiest it had been since Mr and Mrs Bennet had lived there.
Now it was battered and bruised. Drawers lay on work surfaces, no longer attached to brackets; holes and rubble appeared where they hadn’t been seen before; and unsightly yet impressively large cobwebs were now on show for all to see. A tumble dryer sat in the middle of the lounge, and boxes full of cereals, food, saucepans, oven cleaner, bleach and tea towels were scattered wherever there was an empty floor space. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an exciting place to explore for the little Miss Bennets. They had already attacked one box and enjoyed drumming a few saucepans with wooden spoons.
Mrs Bennet did enjoy having the Darcys in the Dirt around. Spag and Bol willingly accepted them as extra faces to study and grin at. But having her house pulled about whilst her emotions were also experiencing a battering was a further strain on Mrs Bennet’s nerves, if she was honest.
It was biopsy day. And her nerves were in tatters. She had sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours, but had been forced to leave her mum, dad and sister in order to pick up the little Miss Twin Bennets, who were being looked after by a friend. Walking away not knowing, had been awful. Walking into a house, which was feeling the effects of upheaval, echoed her anguish. The phone was relentlessly ringing. She knew it would be Jannie’s friends and her own wanting to know the results. She had no wish to talk to them.
On the fifth call, she felt the need to pick up the receiver.
“It’s me. I just had to ring you myself. It’s the best news I could have had today. It hasn’t spread and they're convinced they’ve caught it all,” the voice of Jannie sang in her ear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t hear anymore. She dissolved into tears. The worry, the weight of what might have been, the waiting, the hoping, erupted into an emotional torrent. Her precious mum, the grandmother of her children, was going to be alright. The bright yellow exposed in her kitchen was now bearable. Mrs Bennet could now even consider it as a sunshine yellow. Her bubble, last seen floating over Bristol had returned. Jannie’s hope was back, and so was hers.
Ghosts of kitchens past echoed around the walls. It made an interesting sight and one which, in places, required a pair of shades. Whatever had possessed her to paint a kitchen sunshine yellow and sky blue? In her defence, it was a decade ago. An era of rag rolling, sponging and vivid colours which clashed, yet no one had been brave enough to admit their effects were painful to the eye. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to offend those who considered them beautiful. At the time, being a creative sort, Mrs Bennet had given her all. Every part of the house had been touched by turquoises, terracotta reds, yellow, vivid blues and sea greens. The gaudy yellow – which had been hidden these past three years by grown-up, sophisticated beige kitchen units – was now once again exposed. Mrs Bennet remembered painting it to hide the mustard offering the owners before her had left behind.
It was 10 years ago. At 29, she hadn’t known what pregnancy meant, hadn’t known her stomach would, over the coming decade, stretch like a contortionist and provide the nurturing home for five offspring. Now at 39, waiting to enter another era, she didn’t like to think what was before her. She was older, greyer, and wrinklier but she had learnt the valuable lesson of living one day at a time. Yet the last seven weeks of watching, waiting and feeling her mother’s pain, had taken its toll. If the biopsy results weren’t good, she wasn’t sure how she could face tomorrow let alone the next 10 years. The unsightly yellow was just that, unsightly, far too bright for her current situation.
The Darcys in the Dirt were dismantling units and moving them to the back of the house. Ironically that morning, the kitchen had looked immaculate and the tidiest it had been since Mr and Mrs Bennet had lived there.
Now it was battered and bruised. Drawers lay on work surfaces, no longer attached to brackets; holes and rubble appeared where they hadn’t been seen before; and unsightly yet impressively large cobwebs were now on show for all to see. A tumble dryer sat in the middle of the lounge, and boxes full of cereals, food, saucepans, oven cleaner, bleach and tea towels were scattered wherever there was an empty floor space. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an exciting place to explore for the little Miss Bennets. They had already attacked one box and enjoyed drumming a few saucepans with wooden spoons.
Mrs Bennet did enjoy having the Darcys in the Dirt around. Spag and Bol willingly accepted them as extra faces to study and grin at. But having her house pulled about whilst her emotions were also experiencing a battering was a further strain on Mrs Bennet’s nerves, if she was honest.
It was biopsy day. And her nerves were in tatters. She had sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours, but had been forced to leave her mum, dad and sister in order to pick up the little Miss Twin Bennets, who were being looked after by a friend. Walking away not knowing, had been awful. Walking into a house, which was feeling the effects of upheaval, echoed her anguish. The phone was relentlessly ringing. She knew it would be Jannie’s friends and her own wanting to know the results. She had no wish to talk to them.
On the fifth call, she felt the need to pick up the receiver.
“It’s me. I just had to ring you myself. It’s the best news I could have had today. It hasn’t spread and they're convinced they’ve caught it all,” the voice of Jannie sang in her ear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t hear anymore. She dissolved into tears. The worry, the weight of what might have been, the waiting, the hoping, erupted into an emotional torrent. Her precious mum, the grandmother of her children, was going to be alright. The bright yellow exposed in her kitchen was now bearable. Mrs Bennet could now even consider it as a sunshine yellow. Her bubble, last seen floating over Bristol had returned. Jannie’s hope was back, and so was hers.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
More than one punch up
Monday, April 27 ‘09
It was three o’clock in the morning and to say Mrs Bennet was feeling angry was an understatement. She hadn’t gone to bed as early as she had liked because she had had a writing deadline to meet. It was past one o’clock when she finally crawled into bed. Mr Bennet had made his appointment to see Mr Sleep hours before and no crying child would wake him. As Mrs Bennet had missed her appointment, the crying child woke her instead – just as she had eventually drifted off, even though her mind was troubled. The annoying alarm bell wasn’t going to be switched off and it was quickly joined by its neighbouring bell. Mrs Bennet’s head was spinning. She was fuming over everything. Time of the month hormones only served to fuel the rage within. Why was life so cruel at times? Why did it come and bulldoze emotions? Seeing the hurt and pain in her dad’s eyes, and the fear and worry in her mum’s, only echoed her own. She’d taken it out on Mr Bennet that night and accused him of being useless at emotional stuff. Not being one to have angry outbursts, she had surprised herself but the words had slipped out before she could stop them and the man from Mars withdrew to his cave, wounded.
Shortly afterward Miss Bennet Number Three bolted in with a problem he could fix.
“Daddy can you punch up my tyres please? They’re flat and need punching up!” she declared, with hands on hips.
Glad to be able to assist Mr Bennet did the punching required. Mrs Bennet having punched him with words, did apologise later for her unkind words. The truth was she couldn’t cope with emotional pain either. It was far more draining and difficult to handle than anything physical. There were no easy answers and the waiting game was horrid.
It was these raw emotions which surfaced again as Spag and Bol’s demanding cries robbed Mrs Bennet’s appointment with Mr Sleep. Grabbing her pillow she resumed her sandwich position between cots. It worked for one child, but it wasn’t enough for the other, who wanted a drink.
Cold and fed up, Mrs Bennet went on the hunt for a beaker. As the Darcys in the Dirt were taking her kitchen apart in the morning, the cupboards were now empty. Their contents were on the floor in boxes. But at 3am Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember which box contained the cups and drink bottles. She stubbed her toe on a ceramic dish that hadn’t yet found a temporary home and wanted to cry – cry at the mess before her. The upheaval of building bite-size Pemberley epitomized the disruption and disturbance the word cancer achieved with emotions. At this very moment in time she wanted to howl as Rosie was doing so well upstairs. She knew her mum would be up, unable to sleep too. It wasn’t fair. Jannie didn’t deserve this. Her dad didn’t deserve this.
She stood motionless in the midst of the kitchen chaos. The nearly two-year-old's crying suddenly stopped. Fed up with waiting for her mother to return, Miss Bennet Number Four had given up and had fallen asleep. Peace was in the camp. And now her raging had quietened down, Mrs Bennet was also starting to whimper instead of whale. In the coming weeks, the storms would come and go. But despite them, she knew it was vital to hold on to the arms of Peace – and warn Mr Bennet he might be needed as a punch-bag now and then.
It was three o’clock in the morning and to say Mrs Bennet was feeling angry was an understatement. She hadn’t gone to bed as early as she had liked because she had had a writing deadline to meet. It was past one o’clock when she finally crawled into bed. Mr Bennet had made his appointment to see Mr Sleep hours before and no crying child would wake him. As Mrs Bennet had missed her appointment, the crying child woke her instead – just as she had eventually drifted off, even though her mind was troubled. The annoying alarm bell wasn’t going to be switched off and it was quickly joined by its neighbouring bell. Mrs Bennet’s head was spinning. She was fuming over everything. Time of the month hormones only served to fuel the rage within. Why was life so cruel at times? Why did it come and bulldoze emotions? Seeing the hurt and pain in her dad’s eyes, and the fear and worry in her mum’s, only echoed her own. She’d taken it out on Mr Bennet that night and accused him of being useless at emotional stuff. Not being one to have angry outbursts, she had surprised herself but the words had slipped out before she could stop them and the man from Mars withdrew to his cave, wounded.
Shortly afterward Miss Bennet Number Three bolted in with a problem he could fix.
“Daddy can you punch up my tyres please? They’re flat and need punching up!” she declared, with hands on hips.
Glad to be able to assist Mr Bennet did the punching required. Mrs Bennet having punched him with words, did apologise later for her unkind words. The truth was she couldn’t cope with emotional pain either. It was far more draining and difficult to handle than anything physical. There were no easy answers and the waiting game was horrid.
It was these raw emotions which surfaced again as Spag and Bol’s demanding cries robbed Mrs Bennet’s appointment with Mr Sleep. Grabbing her pillow she resumed her sandwich position between cots. It worked for one child, but it wasn’t enough for the other, who wanted a drink.
Cold and fed up, Mrs Bennet went on the hunt for a beaker. As the Darcys in the Dirt were taking her kitchen apart in the morning, the cupboards were now empty. Their contents were on the floor in boxes. But at 3am Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember which box contained the cups and drink bottles. She stubbed her toe on a ceramic dish that hadn’t yet found a temporary home and wanted to cry – cry at the mess before her. The upheaval of building bite-size Pemberley epitomized the disruption and disturbance the word cancer achieved with emotions. At this very moment in time she wanted to howl as Rosie was doing so well upstairs. She knew her mum would be up, unable to sleep too. It wasn’t fair. Jannie didn’t deserve this. Her dad didn’t deserve this.
She stood motionless in the midst of the kitchen chaos. The nearly two-year-old's crying suddenly stopped. Fed up with waiting for her mother to return, Miss Bennet Number Four had given up and had fallen asleep. Peace was in the camp. And now her raging had quietened down, Mrs Bennet was also starting to whimper instead of whale. In the coming weeks, the storms would come and go. But despite them, she knew it was vital to hold on to the arms of Peace – and warn Mr Bennet he might be needed as a punch-bag now and then.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Jannie’s Jamaican Courage
Monday, April 20 09
Jamaica the rag doll was sitting on Mrs Bennet’s lap, being held rather too tightly. Miss Bennet Number Two was perched on a doctor’s couch, grimacing as the doctor sapped her verruca with liquid nitrogen. As Miss Bennet winced, Mrs Bennet squeezed the doll, complete with its hospital tagged-wrist, which bore the date of her last hospital visit three years ago. Miss Emily had needed an operation and the doll had gone in with her for comfort. Mrs Bennet recalled the awful moment when she had to walk away from her anaesthetised daughter – leaving her on the operating table. It was why she was clutching the doll now. Not because her daughter was pained by the freezing treatment, but because at this very moment her own mum was being put to sleep ready for an operation for breast cancer. Jamaica – bought on holiday in the Caribbean – lived at Jannie’s house. She came out when she was needed to escort an anxious child to hospital or the doctor’s surgery to provide courage and comfort. It was Jannie who needed her the most today, and it was Jannie Mrs Bennet was thinking and praying about at each squirt of the liquid nitrogen.
But Jamaica was soothing Mrs Bennet the most at this moment. Looking at the perfect tropical blue sky outdoors, Mrs Bennet could quite easily imagine being in the “land of wood and water,” where waterfalls, springs, rivers and streams flowed to fertile plains from its forest-clad mountains. The thought of biting into a luscious tropical fruit with a weird and wonderful name or sniffing the tempting aroma of a world-famous Blue Mountain coffee was almost tangible. The latter would probably taste better than Mr Latte. Mrs Bennet had gone off him. He no longer hit the spot. There were issues here too emotional for him to soothe. He could make her feel better about living on a building site, but he couldn’t take away the scary and almost surreal journey her precious mum was now facing. If only a dose of hot frothy milk and a shot of caffeine could make it better. But it couldn’t. It was a long waiting game where there was no control. However Mrs Bennet knew if anyone could walk this new uncertain path with dignity, humour and strength, her mum could.
“Mummy, can I have Jamaica back now please?” asked the small patient leaping off the couch, quickly forgetting her painful toe and bouncing as she normally did in Tigger-like-fashion. This polite request relieved Mrs Bennet's knuckles of their clenching and snapped her back into mother mode.
Back at the almost finished bite-size Pemberley, the rest of the little Bennets were being looked after by friends. The Darcys in the Dirt had incidentally returned that morning, marking the start of the last chapter. They had originally planned to rip the kitchen out that morning, but due to the more pressing operation, had looked kindly on Mrs Bennet and gave her an extra week to pack the cupboard contents into boxes. Instead they were at the bottom of the garden insulating her office.
Now Jamaica’s job had been done, Mrs Bennet did contemplate taking her into hospital to sit at the bottom of her mum’s bed, but thought better of it. Instead she took a handful of home-made cards, the older Miss Bennets had insisted on making, to cheer the patient on. Looking as pale as her blond-streaked hair, Jannie managed a smile. Drained of colour, she was still the beautiful woman they all loved. Her inner strength and positive nature was shining through. And Mrs Bennet knew Jannie was everything Jamaica, the rag doll stood for – heart and courage.
Jamaica the rag doll was sitting on Mrs Bennet’s lap, being held rather too tightly. Miss Bennet Number Two was perched on a doctor’s couch, grimacing as the doctor sapped her verruca with liquid nitrogen. As Miss Bennet winced, Mrs Bennet squeezed the doll, complete with its hospital tagged-wrist, which bore the date of her last hospital visit three years ago. Miss Emily had needed an operation and the doll had gone in with her for comfort. Mrs Bennet recalled the awful moment when she had to walk away from her anaesthetised daughter – leaving her on the operating table. It was why she was clutching the doll now. Not because her daughter was pained by the freezing treatment, but because at this very moment her own mum was being put to sleep ready for an operation for breast cancer. Jamaica – bought on holiday in the Caribbean – lived at Jannie’s house. She came out when she was needed to escort an anxious child to hospital or the doctor’s surgery to provide courage and comfort. It was Jannie who needed her the most today, and it was Jannie Mrs Bennet was thinking and praying about at each squirt of the liquid nitrogen.
But Jamaica was soothing Mrs Bennet the most at this moment. Looking at the perfect tropical blue sky outdoors, Mrs Bennet could quite easily imagine being in the “land of wood and water,” where waterfalls, springs, rivers and streams flowed to fertile plains from its forest-clad mountains. The thought of biting into a luscious tropical fruit with a weird and wonderful name or sniffing the tempting aroma of a world-famous Blue Mountain coffee was almost tangible. The latter would probably taste better than Mr Latte. Mrs Bennet had gone off him. He no longer hit the spot. There were issues here too emotional for him to soothe. He could make her feel better about living on a building site, but he couldn’t take away the scary and almost surreal journey her precious mum was now facing. If only a dose of hot frothy milk and a shot of caffeine could make it better. But it couldn’t. It was a long waiting game where there was no control. However Mrs Bennet knew if anyone could walk this new uncertain path with dignity, humour and strength, her mum could.
“Mummy, can I have Jamaica back now please?” asked the small patient leaping off the couch, quickly forgetting her painful toe and bouncing as she normally did in Tigger-like-fashion. This polite request relieved Mrs Bennet's knuckles of their clenching and snapped her back into mother mode.
Back at the almost finished bite-size Pemberley, the rest of the little Bennets were being looked after by friends. The Darcys in the Dirt had incidentally returned that morning, marking the start of the last chapter. They had originally planned to rip the kitchen out that morning, but due to the more pressing operation, had looked kindly on Mrs Bennet and gave her an extra week to pack the cupboard contents into boxes. Instead they were at the bottom of the garden insulating her office.
Now Jamaica’s job had been done, Mrs Bennet did contemplate taking her into hospital to sit at the bottom of her mum’s bed, but thought better of it. Instead she took a handful of home-made cards, the older Miss Bennets had insisted on making, to cheer the patient on. Looking as pale as her blond-streaked hair, Jannie managed a smile. Drained of colour, she was still the beautiful woman they all loved. Her inner strength and positive nature was shining through. And Mrs Bennet knew Jannie was everything Jamaica, the rag doll stood for – heart and courage.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Wiped out by wet wipes
Thursday, April 16 09
While Mr Bennet was flying at 30,000 feet to Dubai and Miss Emily Bennet was flying on rides round Legoland with a friend, Miss Rosie Bennet was supposed to be having her lunchtime nap. After the usual chit chat and giggles between Spag and Bol, silence had fallen in the little Twin Bennet’s room. Mrs Bennet understandably thought they were both asleep. She was busy making their favourite namesake dish, Spaghetti Bolognese along with a large batch of Shepherd’s Pie, to be frozen ready for hospital visits and operation recovery.
Miss Rosie Bennet didn’t drop off as easily as her sister and being in a playful mood, managed to haul the pack of wet wipes her mother had just opened, through her cot bars. Feeling in the need of a wash, she had proceeded to yank out virtually every wet wipe the packet contained, before falling asleep.
Mrs Bennet found her in a pool of wet wipe juice. Spag’s clothes and bedding were soaking wet and she was surrounded by a cushion of drying out wipes.
“Oh Rosie, what am I going to do with you!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet, scooping up her wet wipe babe with one arm and gathering an armful of soggy white squares with the other.
Amused by the scene, Miss Kezia Bennet pointed her index finger at her sister and giggled infectiously like an animated rocking Bag of Laughter.
Mrs Bennet had no choice but to strip Spag naked. But even with clean clothes, she carried the distinct aroma of a wet wipe. At least she hadn’t got a fetish for eating them. One of her friend’s sons had swallowed a whole one when he was a few months old. She only knew this because she found it rolled up in his nappy deposit the next day!
Although the unpredictable brought the scary, it brought the ridiculous as well. And it was the latter which made the harder issues in life more tolerable. It was the mundane, every day things which kept a mother going. And as wiped out as she was, Mrs Bennet couldn’t help but smile at the comedian in her children. At times she dared to live out the “what if?” she saw in the Miss Bennets. Miss Rosie Bennet now knew what happened when she pulled out 70 wet wipes – she got wet. Mrs Bennet pondered. What if she lived as if there was nothing to worry about? It would make life far more enjoyable. And actually some of the biggies, the sharks which threatened to bite you on the bottom, were often not as bad as the fear of them. Fear had a lot to say for itself. It had a bad report and it was about time the faith part of Mrs Bennet had a greater say. Wiped out she may be in terms of sleep deprivation. Knocked out never.
While Mr Bennet was flying at 30,000 feet to Dubai and Miss Emily Bennet was flying on rides round Legoland with a friend, Miss Rosie Bennet was supposed to be having her lunchtime nap. After the usual chit chat and giggles between Spag and Bol, silence had fallen in the little Twin Bennet’s room. Mrs Bennet understandably thought they were both asleep. She was busy making their favourite namesake dish, Spaghetti Bolognese along with a large batch of Shepherd’s Pie, to be frozen ready for hospital visits and operation recovery.
Miss Rosie Bennet didn’t drop off as easily as her sister and being in a playful mood, managed to haul the pack of wet wipes her mother had just opened, through her cot bars. Feeling in the need of a wash, she had proceeded to yank out virtually every wet wipe the packet contained, before falling asleep.
Mrs Bennet found her in a pool of wet wipe juice. Spag’s clothes and bedding were soaking wet and she was surrounded by a cushion of drying out wipes.
“Oh Rosie, what am I going to do with you!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet, scooping up her wet wipe babe with one arm and gathering an armful of soggy white squares with the other.
Amused by the scene, Miss Kezia Bennet pointed her index finger at her sister and giggled infectiously like an animated rocking Bag of Laughter.
Mrs Bennet had no choice but to strip Spag naked. But even with clean clothes, she carried the distinct aroma of a wet wipe. At least she hadn’t got a fetish for eating them. One of her friend’s sons had swallowed a whole one when he was a few months old. She only knew this because she found it rolled up in his nappy deposit the next day!
Although the unpredictable brought the scary, it brought the ridiculous as well. And it was the latter which made the harder issues in life more tolerable. It was the mundane, every day things which kept a mother going. And as wiped out as she was, Mrs Bennet couldn’t help but smile at the comedian in her children. At times she dared to live out the “what if?” she saw in the Miss Bennets. Miss Rosie Bennet now knew what happened when she pulled out 70 wet wipes – she got wet. Mrs Bennet pondered. What if she lived as if there was nothing to worry about? It would make life far more enjoyable. And actually some of the biggies, the sharks which threatened to bite you on the bottom, were often not as bad as the fear of them. Fear had a lot to say for itself. It had a bad report and it was about time the faith part of Mrs Bennet had a greater say. Wiped out she may be in terms of sleep deprivation. Knocked out never.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
The Easter Bennet
Sunday, April 12 09
The Easter Bunny sat with an upside-down-chick-basket on his head, reading his newspaper in Mrs Bennet’s empty shed. Chocolate eggs were hidden in the garden and the Easter Bennets were standing patiently behind the lounge door, waiting to be allowed in to start their hunt. It was the simple things in life which often brought the most joy. Children didn’t care about mess, they cared about having fun and sometimes it was the mess which added to the excitement. So the Easter Bunny’s egg collection was hidden in the building site of a garden amongst an abandoned garage door, rubble, various broken bits of pipe, overgrown grass, mud and bricks – oh, and empty coca cola bottles left behind by the Darcys in the Dirt.
Mrs Bennet’s dad, the Easter Bunny sat quite happily in his nesting shed reading the sports pages, but it wasn’t long before the squeals of delight reached him and he was discovered.
Mrs Bennet thought it wise for Miss Bennets Numbers One, Two and Three to complete their hunt before the little Twin Bennets appeared on the scene and gobbled up the treasure. The aim was to gather the eggs up and put them in a corporate basket to be shared out equally later. Mrs Bennet knew Spag and Bol would not give up their chocolate without a fight and instead either crush it into their sticky palms or stuff it into their hungry mouths. They had good taste and could sniff chocolate through two closed doors.
They woke up from their lunch-time nap just as their older siblings embarked on the outside part of the hunt. Like little puppies however they managed to uncover the hidden delights their sisters had missed, and polished up their motor skills by pulling off any golden wrapper to get their prize. Spag managed to get chocolate everywhere, hands, mouth, hair and bottom. Bol had a tiny smear on her lips, but apart from that was immaculately clean.
It was these classic priceless moments of watching her children laughing, her father looking so ridiculous in his silly makeshift hat and observing how proud and happy Mr Bennet and Jannie were at just being there, which made life worthwhile. Easter for the Bennet family hadn’t been easy. The Good Friday atmosphere threatened to drag them all down. When something life-threatening lingered on the horizon it made it hard to remember hope, yet hope was what Easter was all about and the promise of new life.
There was a black cloud over the Bennets. The big C had attacked one of its precious members. Yet her courage, her determination and her love for life was pushing her on in a defeat-less attitude. Emotionally the road was rocky and draining and Mrs Bennet knew the weeks and months ahead were going to be tough for them all. But seeing the laughter, the chocolate feast, the simplicity of an egg hunt and the joy on her children’s faces, helped restore that Easter Sunday hope. Bite-size Pemberley, as incomplete as it was, was now insignificant. It no longer mattered. What mattered was the moment.
The Easter Bunny sat with an upside-down-chick-basket on his head, reading his newspaper in Mrs Bennet’s empty shed. Chocolate eggs were hidden in the garden and the Easter Bennets were standing patiently behind the lounge door, waiting to be allowed in to start their hunt. It was the simple things in life which often brought the most joy. Children didn’t care about mess, they cared about having fun and sometimes it was the mess which added to the excitement. So the Easter Bunny’s egg collection was hidden in the building site of a garden amongst an abandoned garage door, rubble, various broken bits of pipe, overgrown grass, mud and bricks – oh, and empty coca cola bottles left behind by the Darcys in the Dirt.
Mrs Bennet’s dad, the Easter Bunny sat quite happily in his nesting shed reading the sports pages, but it wasn’t long before the squeals of delight reached him and he was discovered.
Mrs Bennet thought it wise for Miss Bennets Numbers One, Two and Three to complete their hunt before the little Twin Bennets appeared on the scene and gobbled up the treasure. The aim was to gather the eggs up and put them in a corporate basket to be shared out equally later. Mrs Bennet knew Spag and Bol would not give up their chocolate without a fight and instead either crush it into their sticky palms or stuff it into their hungry mouths. They had good taste and could sniff chocolate through two closed doors.
They woke up from their lunch-time nap just as their older siblings embarked on the outside part of the hunt. Like little puppies however they managed to uncover the hidden delights their sisters had missed, and polished up their motor skills by pulling off any golden wrapper to get their prize. Spag managed to get chocolate everywhere, hands, mouth, hair and bottom. Bol had a tiny smear on her lips, but apart from that was immaculately clean.
It was these classic priceless moments of watching her children laughing, her father looking so ridiculous in his silly makeshift hat and observing how proud and happy Mr Bennet and Jannie were at just being there, which made life worthwhile. Easter for the Bennet family hadn’t been easy. The Good Friday atmosphere threatened to drag them all down. When something life-threatening lingered on the horizon it made it hard to remember hope, yet hope was what Easter was all about and the promise of new life.
There was a black cloud over the Bennets. The big C had attacked one of its precious members. Yet her courage, her determination and her love for life was pushing her on in a defeat-less attitude. Emotionally the road was rocky and draining and Mrs Bennet knew the weeks and months ahead were going to be tough for them all. But seeing the laughter, the chocolate feast, the simplicity of an egg hunt and the joy on her children’s faces, helped restore that Easter Sunday hope. Bite-size Pemberley, as incomplete as it was, was now insignificant. It no longer mattered. What mattered was the moment.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
"I hate ball pools!" declares Mrs Bennet
Wednesday, April 8 09
There were few things Mrs Bennet disliked but those on her list were loathed with a passion. And ball pools were at the top, followed closely by emptying tea bags from a tea pot.
It was the Easter Holidays. Mr Bennet was meeting someone somewhere in Milan. Mrs Bennet was meeting a fellow mum at her favourite place – the local ball pool. A place she normally avoided like the plague particularly during school holidays. But as it was a birthday party for her friend’s two-year-old, a favourite playmate to Spag and Bol, Mrs Bennet had said yes she would come along. She also knew very well that Miss Bennet Numbers One, Two and Three would be delighted at the prospect of running wild and sliding down death slides. Having spent the night on a cold carpet-less floor sandwiched between the twin’s cots, Mrs Bennet was feeling rather tired, grumpy and lacking in patience. She would quite happily have curled up in a ball in her garden shed. But as that still didn’t have any electrics and therefore no heat, Mrs Bennet didn’t think she had any option but to endure a few hours of high pitched squeals and screams.
Between them Mrs Bennet and her friend had nine children – eight girls and one boy - so it proved quite an expensive visit, and that was without the essential coping fuel of Mr Decaf Latte or Mr Cappuccino. The minute she walked through the doors into a cacophony of shouting, crying and piercing shrills; she knew why ball pools were number one on her Mrs Bennet Dislikes List. Miss Bennet Number Five immediately clung to her hip, threw her tiny arms around her neck and whimpered, making it extremely difficult to negotiate Miss Bennet Number Four round café chairs and tables to the toddler play area. Having been a late walker, it was in fact the first time Bol, alias Miss Kezia Bennet, had been properly introduced to a ball pool. A yellow plastic ball hit her on the chin, and like a ten pin, she wobbled over, quickly grasping her mother’s leg as an anchor in the moving sea of coloured balls. Miss Rosie Bennet, slightly more confident, allowed herself to be lowered into the sea, but feeling out of her depth, immediately shouted to be rescued.
Meanwhile, Miss Bennet Number Three, refusing to take off her glasses and proving she was now a big five, literally flew down the death slide – something Mrs Bennet had never plucked up courage to do. Her children took her to places and heights she never dreamt she’d go. But even though they’d taken her to the edge on several occasions, it was up to her whether she actually wanted to throw herself off. May be when she was 40 she’d do it! She had been up in a balloon, parasailed, rock climbed and abseiled in the past so she wasn’t really a wimp. And she’d just promised another female friend, who turned 40 a few hours before she did that she would go to Alton Towers with her, without children. Knowing how adventurous and adrenaline hungry her mate was, she did wonder whether her pelvic floor would recover. Having said that defying the law of gravity might do it good!
The older two Miss Bennets were lost in the medley of ropes and bodies. But they soon appeared, pink-faced and frazzled; one complaining of slide burn, the other complaining about her sister. She decided to help matters by entering the noise hub, and thinking Spag might like a ride on a bumpy slide, proceeded to push and pull the chubby babe up through holes to the top. It helped one complaining daughter laugh. Clutching on to a slightly scared Miss Bennet Number Four, Mrs Bennet proceeded to descend, unaware the slide had been polished extra well this morning. Miss Bennet Number Two watched in awe as her mother literally took off as she went down the first bump, missed the second bump altogether and landed with a thud on the third, thankfully with Spag still in her arms. Shaken but not stirred, Miss Bennet Number Four looked shocked but smiled at the ordeal. Shaken and stirred, Mrs Bennet, somehow managed to get up, rubbed her sore back and vowed not to do that again - well not today anyway.
Within half an hour emotion was rife. Both twins were crying, the middle Miss Bennet whining her siblings didn’t want to play with her and Miss Bennet Number One was still wincing and rubbing her poorly arm. The four children belonging to her friend were however happily running about and thoroughly enjoying themselves without a moan between them. Mrs Bennet longed for her octopus to come and wipe eyes, soothe wounds and lift them all out of the ball pool and transport them to a place of peace, calm and joy.
Two hours later, the invisible octopus arrived. Four children and a mother were relieved. Miss Bennet Number Two was not and blamed everyone else for pulled her out of the ball jungle before she was ready. Mrs Bennet breathed a sigh of relief, strapped the Miss Bennets in their seats, and put her head on the steering wheel. She then sent a text to her husband, who was child-free in Italy.
“I HATE BALL POOLS! Just thought you might like to know!” she tapped into her phone. After eating a waiter-served Italian meal, accompanied by proper adult conversation, when sentences were finished and food was enjoyed hot, Mr Bennet sent his thoughts on the subject.
“Oh come on, all that screaming and noise, you love it really!”
She did not reply. Instead as Miss Bennet Number Three was due to return to Mrs Bennet’s torture chamber on Saturday for a party, she made up her mind that Mr Bennet would be taking their daughter. He could also remove every tea bag for the next decade as his punishment for flying abroad to a different country three weeks running.
There were few things Mrs Bennet disliked but those on her list were loathed with a passion. And ball pools were at the top, followed closely by emptying tea bags from a tea pot.
It was the Easter Holidays. Mr Bennet was meeting someone somewhere in Milan. Mrs Bennet was meeting a fellow mum at her favourite place – the local ball pool. A place she normally avoided like the plague particularly during school holidays. But as it was a birthday party for her friend’s two-year-old, a favourite playmate to Spag and Bol, Mrs Bennet had said yes she would come along. She also knew very well that Miss Bennet Numbers One, Two and Three would be delighted at the prospect of running wild and sliding down death slides. Having spent the night on a cold carpet-less floor sandwiched between the twin’s cots, Mrs Bennet was feeling rather tired, grumpy and lacking in patience. She would quite happily have curled up in a ball in her garden shed. But as that still didn’t have any electrics and therefore no heat, Mrs Bennet didn’t think she had any option but to endure a few hours of high pitched squeals and screams.
Between them Mrs Bennet and her friend had nine children – eight girls and one boy - so it proved quite an expensive visit, and that was without the essential coping fuel of Mr Decaf Latte or Mr Cappuccino. The minute she walked through the doors into a cacophony of shouting, crying and piercing shrills; she knew why ball pools were number one on her Mrs Bennet Dislikes List. Miss Bennet Number Five immediately clung to her hip, threw her tiny arms around her neck and whimpered, making it extremely difficult to negotiate Miss Bennet Number Four round café chairs and tables to the toddler play area. Having been a late walker, it was in fact the first time Bol, alias Miss Kezia Bennet, had been properly introduced to a ball pool. A yellow plastic ball hit her on the chin, and like a ten pin, she wobbled over, quickly grasping her mother’s leg as an anchor in the moving sea of coloured balls. Miss Rosie Bennet, slightly more confident, allowed herself to be lowered into the sea, but feeling out of her depth, immediately shouted to be rescued.
Meanwhile, Miss Bennet Number Three, refusing to take off her glasses and proving she was now a big five, literally flew down the death slide – something Mrs Bennet had never plucked up courage to do. Her children took her to places and heights she never dreamt she’d go. But even though they’d taken her to the edge on several occasions, it was up to her whether she actually wanted to throw herself off. May be when she was 40 she’d do it! She had been up in a balloon, parasailed, rock climbed and abseiled in the past so she wasn’t really a wimp. And she’d just promised another female friend, who turned 40 a few hours before she did that she would go to Alton Towers with her, without children. Knowing how adventurous and adrenaline hungry her mate was, she did wonder whether her pelvic floor would recover. Having said that defying the law of gravity might do it good!
The older two Miss Bennets were lost in the medley of ropes and bodies. But they soon appeared, pink-faced and frazzled; one complaining of slide burn, the other complaining about her sister. She decided to help matters by entering the noise hub, and thinking Spag might like a ride on a bumpy slide, proceeded to push and pull the chubby babe up through holes to the top. It helped one complaining daughter laugh. Clutching on to a slightly scared Miss Bennet Number Four, Mrs Bennet proceeded to descend, unaware the slide had been polished extra well this morning. Miss Bennet Number Two watched in awe as her mother literally took off as she went down the first bump, missed the second bump altogether and landed with a thud on the third, thankfully with Spag still in her arms. Shaken but not stirred, Miss Bennet Number Four looked shocked but smiled at the ordeal. Shaken and stirred, Mrs Bennet, somehow managed to get up, rubbed her sore back and vowed not to do that again - well not today anyway.
Within half an hour emotion was rife. Both twins were crying, the middle Miss Bennet whining her siblings didn’t want to play with her and Miss Bennet Number One was still wincing and rubbing her poorly arm. The four children belonging to her friend were however happily running about and thoroughly enjoying themselves without a moan between them. Mrs Bennet longed for her octopus to come and wipe eyes, soothe wounds and lift them all out of the ball pool and transport them to a place of peace, calm and joy.
Two hours later, the invisible octopus arrived. Four children and a mother were relieved. Miss Bennet Number Two was not and blamed everyone else for pulled her out of the ball jungle before she was ready. Mrs Bennet breathed a sigh of relief, strapped the Miss Bennets in their seats, and put her head on the steering wheel. She then sent a text to her husband, who was child-free in Italy.
“I HATE BALL POOLS! Just thought you might like to know!” she tapped into her phone. After eating a waiter-served Italian meal, accompanied by proper adult conversation, when sentences were finished and food was enjoyed hot, Mr Bennet sent his thoughts on the subject.
“Oh come on, all that screaming and noise, you love it really!”
She did not reply. Instead as Miss Bennet Number Three was due to return to Mrs Bennet’s torture chamber on Saturday for a party, she made up her mind that Mr Bennet would be taking their daughter. He could also remove every tea bag for the next decade as his punishment for flying abroad to a different country three weeks running.
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