Spag and Bol’s t-towel and trolley war

Monday, September 7 ‘09

Sibling squabbles were frequent in the Bennet household despite the fact there were now more rooms to escape to. Mrs Bennet dived into the shoe cupboard now and then so she didn’t hear the “Mummy she hit me!” and “And she deliberately scribbled on my drawing!” Mrs Bennet realised the quarrelling was part of her life for the foreseeable future. The more children you have, the more likely at some part in the day, one combination or another will fall out, sit on each other, stick a tongue out or want the same toy/book at the same time.
Spag and Bol, the little Twin Bennets were having a tug of war with a t-towel. Sitting in their respective blue booster seats with matching brown beards due to a chocolate pudding indulgence, they both wanted to hold the rather faded, holey t-towel. Spag (alias Rosie), being somewhat bigger all round was winning as Bol (alias Kezia) was being lifted a few inches out of her chair, yet refusing to let go. The shouts were getting louder in the dining room. The giggles were getting louder in the adjoining, open plan kitchen. Mr and Mrs Bennet, amused by Miss Bennet Number Four and Five’s sudden fascination for a scraggly t-towel, were quite enjoying the spectacle; waiting in the wings to rescue the smaller twin who looked like she was about to fly across the room with a blue plastic seat attached to her bottom. She may have lost in strength, but she made up for it in cheek and charm. And the one nil down score only sought to give her extra determination to get even with her 20-minute-older sister.
The revenge came during a shopping episode. Mrs Bennet, having failed in her search for a double-seated trolley, decided to walk her toddlers in with the help of Jannie, her lovely mum. This was fine until Bol, with her extra vigilant eyes, spotted a mini trolley parked in the entrance ready for potential two-year-old shoppers. She ran to it, claimed it as her own, and grinned victoriously at Spag, who realising there wasn’t a trolley for her, threw her faithful battered and well-loved rabbit on the floor in disgust and herself down with it. Mrs Bennet wanted to leave them to it; pretend they didn’t belong to her and walk out. Only they did belong to her and the supermarket staff knew they did too. Bol had got her revenge. And despite pleas from both Mrs Bennet and Jannie; and screams from Spag, Bol refused to let go of the said trolley and pushed it round the aisles…and occasionally into people….with a vice grip.
Whilst Mrs Bennet understood her elder twin’s upset at the unfairness of life, she couldn’t magic another tiny trolley to appear and neither could the staff. Trying to reason with a two-year-old who was sobbing was like trying to find a minute precious ring stone in the midst of a batch of bread dough. As Mrs Bennet knew from bitter experience, you just had to wait until cooking time was over.
Half an hour later, another trolley was delivered to a now pacified twin who was sitting quietly, trying to get a straw into a bottle of water in the café area. Mrs Bennet was taking refuge in her forgotten friend Mr Latte, who on occasions such as this had become a firm companion for Jannie too. The war had ended. Peace between the twins was momentarily made. And side by side they pushed their matching trolleys up the wide aisles, chatting amicably to one another, creating smiles and not too much havoc as they went. Although Mrs Bennet was sure she didn’t put Cock-a-leekie or Oxtail soup on her shopping list! The twin tug-o-war score: one each to Spag and Bol. Mummy nil.

Bennets Abroad

August 12 '09

Friends thought she was mad to take five little girls to Spain, but Mrs Bennet thought it was just as mad to take them out anywhere in the summer holidays. It was quicker to fly to Valencia than it was to drive to Liverpool. And at least she had Mr Bennet's arms and legs to call on for extra support. And anyway it was a Bennet adventure. Mrs Bennet liked challenges. Even if they were at 35,000 feet calming down two two-year-olds who couldn't work out what had happened to their ears and why there were clouds below and alongside them when they were usually up in the air. Miss Naomi Bennet had just turned three last time she has ascended and Miss Emily a mere seventeen months. The whole flying experience through the eyes of five little Bennet girls made it all the more interesting. Miss Naomi impressed by her airport surroundings couldn't help but utter a "wow this is amazing!" Miss Emily, the time-keeper of rhe family exclaimed every few minutes, "are we going to miss our flight?!" Miss Megan, who didn't like having "hurty" ears, kept shouting out, "I've lost my voice and it's not coming back?" as she couldn't understand it was her hearing she'd lost. Mrs Bennet tried to get her to pop her ears by holding her nose and blowing hard or swallowing. Miss Megan knew about the potential ear problem from a Topsy and Tim book. But they had been given a sweet to suck by the air hostess. Miss Megan was quite upset she hadn't so Mrs Bennet tried to save the day by providing the glucose. It only served to upset her offspring more as Miss Megan swallowed it before descent. "Oh no, I've eaten it!" she announced panic-stricken, a state of mind which stayed with her until five hours later when the "pop" happened and her "voice" returned. The little Miss Twin Bennets just saw the airport as a new playground, somewhere to run and explore. Miss Rosie was understandably distraught however when her precious bunny was taken off her to be scanned and then her pushchair disappeared on a conveyor belt, in her eyes, never to be seen again! As for Mr Bennet? He enjoyed his single seat taking off but Mrs Bennet insisted he swapped for landing. Being the filling in a twin sandwich had its own taste of turbulence! He also wished he had booked a bigger hire car. A seven seater car with no boot space with seven bennets, two pushchairs, five lots of hand luggage and four suitcases to fit in, left him dripping with sweat and his wife praying for a miracle that somehow they'd achieve the impossible and get everything in. Somehow they did and somehow they managed to find their villa. Were they mad? Yes but it was worth it to have the adventure..... and a chilled bottle of beer sitting on a balcony overlooking a huge expanse of Mediterranean sea. Mr Bennet looked good after a day in Spanish sun, jumping waves and messing about with his little women. The cacophony of giggles after endless splashing in the pool was music to Mrs Bennet's ears. May be turning forty wasn't going to be too bad.

The Browning Banana Effect

Monday, July 27 2009

Two lonely bananas looked lost in the Bennet fruit bowl, which a few hours ago, had been brimming with ripe apples. One sitting at the dining table meant the bananas were now bereft of their crunchier pals. Five hungry mouths had chomped their way to the cores, now left for Mrs Bennet to clear away.
“That will be me and Mrs Bennet in a few years time,” thought Mrs Bennet as she took the banana-only fruit bowl into the kitchen to refill, this time with tiny oranges, the “easy peeler” kind.
The bananas didn’t look as fresh as they did on Friday. Their brown freckled patches were now more noticeable against the yellow skin. They didn’t seem so appealing and Mrs Bennet knew they’d end up as banana cake if not consumed within the next 24 hours.
“Where does time go?” she thought sadly. She didn’t want to be 40. It sounded so old. Well it had sounded really old when she was about 15. And it didn’t seem five minutes since she was at secondary school, mulling over which A level subjects to take.
Last night she had been looking at baby photos with Miss Naomi Bennet and laughing at the funny comments she had included in her first year book. None of the other Miss Bennets had such a book. Mrs Bennet had had time on her hands when Miss Naomi had arrived. Miss Emily had half a book, but Miss Megan, Miss Rosie and Miss Kezia didn’t stand a chance of getting a completed diary. Mrs Bennet felt guilty about it. She was so busy looking after them, feeling like the ball in a pin-ball machine, pinging from task to task, child to child, she often failed to take a photo of the occasion let alone get the opportunity to develop them or put them in an album. One day maybe? What hit her was how young she had looked. It certainly wasn’t the face she had seen in the mirror this morning. Like the banana, it had brown marks on it, slightly wrinkled and a little jaded. Her teeth were no longer as white – in fact one was missing – and she looked, well older. It hadn’t helped that most of the past ten years had been deprived of sleep or that her body had produced five children, was constantly on the go and no longer knew was rest meant. In fact if she was honest she really felt like a discarded banana peel. Since the little Miss Twin Bennets’ arrival, she’d spent countless hours in “tighten your asset” classes trying to get her “peel” to stick back together. If you looked closely you’d see it didn’t quite match. But thankfully only Mr Bennet got that close.
Right now Mrs Bennet didn’t want time to move. She wanted to freeze moments – the infectious giggle of Miss Kezia Bennet who ran away at the mention of “nappy change”; the innocent writing and simple loveable drawings Miss Megan Bennet constantly produced; the Tigger-like bounce in Miss Emily Bennet’s step, the wonderful smattering of freckles dusting Miss Naomi Bennet’s nose and the way Miss Rosie Bennet sucked her fingers and cuddled her bunny when she was tired. Mr Bennet who frequently delighted in reminding her that he was younger than herself, seemed to have worn better. Granted, he had less hair and perhaps more padding, but his smile was still as bright and he certainly didn’t have any stretch marks. He didn’t look so tired either.
Mrs Bennet hoped the next decade would bring more sleep, but somehow she knew more grey hairs, wrinkles and age spots would arrive. Like the uneaten banana, left in the fruit bowl after the younger crispier fruit had long gone, she hoped she would still be useful. But then there was always the chance she and Mr Bennet would make a good banana cake in their ripening years.

Peer Pressure versus Purse Pressure

Thursday, July 16 09

“Now I’m going to have to wear my school uniform. I don’t have anything to wear and my friends will laugh at me,” said an angry Miss Bennet Number One as she stormed off in the direction of her bedroom.
Mrs Bennet was a bad Mummy, a stingy Mummy and a Mummy who didn’t care. That was the current opinion of her eldest daughter. On occasion, Mrs Bennet felt outnumbered by her offspring. Today she was quite grateful that she had more than one daughter. There was at least 20 per cent chance that one of them would be having an “I love my Mummy” day.
Tomorrow was the last day of school before the long stretch of summer holidays – which like a remote landscape seemed to go on for miles and miles. It was non-uniform day so children had the privilege of paying to wear what they wanted. Only it seemed when they did reappear in their own gear, instead of the usual sea of green, it was now a sea of denim.
“All my friends are wearing a skirt in the morning. I don’t have one so can you go and buy the one I liked in Tesco please?” Miss Bennet Number One had asked.
The answer of course had been no. Although Mrs Bennet treated her children when she could, she was not going down this road. You buy a new skirt for one; you buy one for four more. And anyway there were two more Miss Bennets taking part in non-uniform day. It could prove a very expensive last day of term if she gave in.
That’s why she was considered Mean Mummy. Peer pressure versus purse pressure didn’t work. The pennies in the purse, or coppers to be more precise won. There weren’t enough to buy a waist band today let alone a full garment.
Miss Bennet Number One wasn’t open to reason. Instead she took herself to bed, snuggled under the covers and pretended to sleep. Eventually she returned downstairs in her chosen non-uniform attire – jeans and t-shirt. She didn’t wear a smile. But Mrs Bennet decided the only way of dealing with pre-teenage strops was ignoring it and changing tact. So instead of imitating the sulk, she tickled her eldest daughter until she could do nothing else but giggle. Dimples and denim went so much better together.

Not enough pressure

Saturday, June 27 ‘09

Mrs Bennet didn’t have enough stress in her life. The nurses at her local hospital decided she needed a career in the National Health Service. Her blood pressure was too low and obviously needed a boost.
“How do I get it to go up then?” Mrs Bennet asked the sister.
“We don’t get asked that very often. You need to work here, that’ll make it soar!” she replied.
Mrs Bennet was in Casualty, being checked over for a bruised rib cage. Every time she laughed, she winced. She had tripped over an object in the road in the small hours of the morning – as you do – and had fallen awkwardly on her chest. As the Bust Fairy hadn’t visited her for some time, she didn’t have much padding, and crushed what little assets she had. Obviously sore, she had decided to get herself checked out – despite the embarrassment. Mrs Bennet hadn’t been drinking. Instead, she had been on a very special ladies night out; night being the operative word. She, along with 1,700 other women had, that morning walked 10 miles through and round a nearby town, starting at the stroke of midnight in aid of the local hospice, Cotswold Care. Striding out, the impressive snake of white t-shirts, was anything but silent as it meandered its way through dimly lit streets and parkland. Mrs Bennet had clocked up hundreds of miles over the years in terms of running and not once had she tripped up and fallen over. But then she had never had cause to run at one or two o’clock in the morning. Why would she? Surely being in a comfy bed was much more sensible. The ladies thought so too as they passed a shop selling mattresses and luxury single and double beds, which teased them as they marched by. Mrs Bennet had thought the idea of having a ladies night out and some undisturbed adult time had been a good one at the time. This was before her own lovely mum had been diagnosed with the C word, so now the walk had even more significance. For once, she and her friends could speak in whole sentences, while their legs obediently worked hard. The night air was cool but not cold and unlike 10 o’clock that morning, there wasn’t a drop of rain in sight. However for Mrs Bennet there were other obstacles. She narrowly avoided getting winded by a bollard as it suddenly appeared in the centre of the pavement. Thankfully a friend pulled her away just in time. But at mile three, she failed to see an obstacle in the road, and completely lost her balance, tumbled and fell with a thud – her sternum taking the brunt of the fall. Shaken up, Mrs Bennet fought back the emotion, brushed herself down and kept going. Her chest tight and painful, she wished she had more padding, but vowed to keep on going. She wanted her medal, she wanted to finish and she looked forward to her coffee and croissant at the end.
Hence why she was here at the hospital at a more civilised time. It hurt to laugh and inhale. But apart from popping pain killers and getting some rest, there wasn’t a lot more she could do. As her life wasn’t stressful – according to her blood pressure measurements – rest was easy! Five children weren’t obviously enough for her. In jest, her mother-in-law suggested maybe six or seven might do it. But if that ever happened, it would be the NHS which would be in trouble. And so would Mrs Bennet. It would be Mr Bennet’s blood pressure which would rise for fear his wife had gone off with Mr Darcy.

High price for spending a penny

Monday, June 8 ‘09

Trying to spend a penny with two little people, or even five as was often the case, was no easy task. When nature called, it was a costly trip for Mrs Bennet. Negotiating a double buggy through the toilet door was one thing, trying to entertain two impatient children while she did her business, was another. And when all five little Miss Bennets were with her, it was almost impossible, especially when they decided they needed to go at different intervals and at the most inconvenient moment. A double dose of potty training was looming on the horizon and Mrs Bennet was approaching the prospect with fear and trepidation.
Toilet trips were therefore not expeditions to take lightly. And this one had a heavy price. Mrs Bennet was in her favourite supermarket, precariously balancing Spag and Bol on a grown-up café seat because they refused to swing their legs into a high chair. As the call of nature was pressing, and Jannie, having recently undergone surgery for breast cancer, couldn’t lift a toddler if required, Mrs Bennet opted for the best solution – hopping into the disabled toilet immediately next to her mother, so she could get back within minutes to resolve any lifting crisis.
“I’ll be quick, I promise,” she yelled. And quick she was. But the getting out process was by no means swift. Somehow in between locking herself in, and turning the lock to get out, the mechanism went limp and got stuck. Mrs Bennet couldn’t get out, and anyone outside, couldn’t get in. She was trapped.
“I suppose this is one way to get away from children,” she thought grimly. Confined in what must be a 200m square box, with a pungent nappy bin for company and not a window in sight, Mrs Bennet was steadily getting hotter as time elapsed. She knew there was no point in shouting, “Help!” as no one would hear her. Besides the door holding her captive, a heavy double door separated the toilet from the café.
She just hoped Spag and Bol were behaving themselves. They were at an age where sitting still was a foreign concept unless an apple or an orange – something which required effort and a long period of time to eat – was in their sticky paws. And Mrs Bennet knew they weren’t armed.
She noticed an emergency cord in the corner of her prison. It was the sort of thing Mr Bean would have pulled, simply because he wanted to know what happened if he did. It wasn’t the sort of thing a grown woman did just to see “what if?” But now she had an excuse. She really did need help.
She felt embarrassed she wasn’t a disabled person. But in a sense she was really glad it was herself and not an old lady trapped inside. She was feeling claustrophobic, although she knew from the sound of activity outside that someone had come to her rescue.
“We’re just getting the manager. Are you alright in there?” asked a familiar voice. Mrs Bennet used the café so much as a refuge and writing place with her trusted friend Mr Latte, that she was known by all staff. There was a struggle with the lock, but nothing was happening.
“I ran in here so I didn’t leave my mum with the twins too long. She can’t lift them. Please tell her I’m stuck in here,” Mrs Bennet shouted.
“It’s OK, she says you can stay in there as long as you like! She knows you need a break!”
Jannie had a point. It was a break of sorts. It just wasn't a venue she would have chosen. “Please don’t let the fire brigade get involved. I really don’t want my five minutes of fame in this scenario!” she silently prayed. Although who could complain having a Darcy in uniform running to their aid?
What seemed like hours later, the manager finally unscrewed the lock and let her out. Embarrassed, Mrs Bennet walked free. So many times she had used this tiny cubicle to change a nappy. Today she had only used it to avoid being longer than necessary for her mum’s sake. Spending a penny had proved a lot dearer than she anticipated.

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.