Monday, June 7 2010
Motherhood, Mrs. Bennet decided was like being in permanent labour. There were moments of calm. And there were moments when the contractions were so painful, she felt like screaming. Sitting on the doorstep, head in hands and breathing deeply was one of those moments. Minutes before the little Twin Bennets were happily playing in the playroom, Miss Bennet Number One was literally plastered with paper mache, engrossed in building a model air raid shelter, Miss Bennet Number Two was cartwheeling across the lounge floor, while Miss Bennet Number Three was sitting quietly amidst a rainbow of coloured felt tips working on her latest masterpiece. There was a contented aura in the house which meant Mrs Bennet could get on with preparing tea without having to act as referee or counsellor. So how come then she was now sitting on the step, wishing she was somewhere else and counting the minutes to Mr. Bennet’s return? She was victim of the domino effect. The Braxton Hicks contractor that started small, but built up so strongly, she had top gasp for air. Since she had no cylinder of Gas and Air to call upon, it meant leaving the house to count to ten and get her blood pressure under control again.
It started with the simple act of opening a cupboard. A small bottle of pearly brown nail varnish had nose-dived into her favourite spotty mug and in doing so smashed the top, sending little chips onto the hob and floor. Bending down to pick up the bits, she banged her head on the corner of a cupboard she had forgotten to shut. Simultaneously battles were erupting in the different downstairs rooms. The little Miss Twin Bennets, who up until now had been behaving themselves, sharing their toys and chatting in their unique Spagbolese language, were now at war. The elder twin by 20 minutes was sitting on top of her sister’s head, refusing to let go of her as her rival had stolen both Fifi characters and wasn’t going to give in. Prizing her from the head sitter, affectionately known as Spag, Mrs. Bennet issued a peace treaty and separated the two fighters. Meanwhile the cartwheeling Miss Bennet had promptly crashed into the very table her artistic siblings were working on, wobbling it to the degree it caused glue to spill and felt tip marks to slip.
“Now my picture’s ruined! It’s all your fault Emily!” exclaimed Miss Bennet number three, ripping up her bright design.
“And look what you’ve done!” cried the elder Miss Bennet, not impressed by the acrobat.
In sorting out this scenario, Mrs Bennet completely forgot about the pot of boiling water and the pasta within. A certain burning smell was heading her way. Too late, the pasta was now part of the saucepan. She hurriedly picked up the handle and ushered the pan to the sink, but somehow failed to miss the pair of tiny pink spotty sunglasses on the floor and crushed them underfoot, hurting herself as she did so. The younger twin, to which the mini fashion accessory belonged, didn’t miss a trick and immediately howled, knowing full well what her mother had just done. So now Mrs. Bennet was the accused and Bol had the evidence that she was guilty. Mrs. Bennet felt like the burnt pasta: frazzled. And it was another 90 minutes before her Mr. Darcy arrived to rescue her.
Sometimes the contractions of motherhood came thick and fast; other days they were a little less frequent. Very rarely was there a day in the Bennet household, when the labour pains barely registered on the graph. And of course there were moments when Mrs. Bennet, so sleep deprived, felt like she had taken one too many puffs on the Gas and Air. Yesterday she had bathed Bol and dried her, to be told by Mr. Bennet that she had failed to wash out the shampoo on the little twin’s head! She had spent the day wearing her top inside out and one earring only and the bottle of Chardonnay she had bought for a friend, promptly rolled out of the car and smashed at her feet as she opened the door.
“You think once you’ve had a child, labour stops. But it’s a lie, it continues for years,” she said out loud from her I-feel-sorry-for-myself step. She breathed out as she was taught all those years ago at Parentcraft lessons and made a decision to see if there were some Gas and Air cylinders on EBay she could bid for. She’d then keep one in each room ready for the next contraction.
Monday, 7 June 2010
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Warning low flying tampons
Friday, April 30 2010
Mrs. Bennet knew it was time to get off the treadmill when removing her jumper, the concealed tampons in her pocket flew out and hit the running machine of the male runner in front. Seeing the White bullets scattered on the gym floor and athletic eyes gazing in her direction, Mrs. Bennet brought her run to an abrupt end, leapt over the front of the machine, gathered her essentials and legged it. She had come on that morning and had had no real desire to exercise anyway, apart from trying out her new trainers, so she appreciated the excuse.
As Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets were happily playing in the crèche, she couldn't leave the building in the safe anonymity of the packed car park; so she sank back into the comforts of the gym's leather sofa, clutching her Mr. Latte and prayed the men she had attacked with her bullets wouldn't recognise her with her clothes on!
Mrs. Bennet knew it was time to get off the treadmill when removing her jumper, the concealed tampons in her pocket flew out and hit the running machine of the male runner in front. Seeing the White bullets scattered on the gym floor and athletic eyes gazing in her direction, Mrs. Bennet brought her run to an abrupt end, leapt over the front of the machine, gathered her essentials and legged it. She had come on that morning and had had no real desire to exercise anyway, apart from trying out her new trainers, so she appreciated the excuse.
As Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets were happily playing in the crèche, she couldn't leave the building in the safe anonymity of the packed car park; so she sank back into the comforts of the gym's leather sofa, clutching her Mr. Latte and prayed the men she had attacked with her bullets wouldn't recognise her with her clothes on!
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Conception in the bedroom – not guilty, says Mrs. Bennet
Tuesday, April 13 2010
The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.
The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Christmas Day Mark Two
Sunday, March 28 10
Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!
Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!
Monday, 22 March 2010
The Cot Concert
Monday, March 22 '10
Shouts of joy and laughter which came from the vacinity of the little Miss Twin Bennet's room indicated that the occupants were far from asleep as Mrs. Bennet had been informed by her husband. Both twins were standing upright, oblivious to the fact their mother was nearby. They were obviously up to something and enjoying one another's company and she was intrigued. She stood outside their door, her arms full of clean washing.
"And now it's Bubba's turn!" cried Spag, the older twin by twenty minutes who had never once called her sister by her correct name. Mrs. Bennet firmly believed Kezia would known as Bubba until the twins were in their eighties.
"Tinkle tinkle little star, ow I under what you are..." began Bol.
The audience was silent as the little star sang with delicious beauty, then erupted into applause once the song was finished.
"Well done, Bubba! Well done," responded the X factor judge from the right-hand cot. The contestant in the left-hand cot was delighted.
"Thank you Rosie and now it's your turn!"
And so Rosie began her solo. This time it was "Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer." And again the audience respected the artist and encouraged her accordingly. The unseen agent behind the door smiled. So this was what they were up to: performing their own cot concert. She hated to interupt their fun.Instead she put down the clean washing at their door, and tip-toed away, making a note to sign up these little stars for future entertainment purposes.
Shouts of joy and laughter which came from the vacinity of the little Miss Twin Bennet's room indicated that the occupants were far from asleep as Mrs. Bennet had been informed by her husband. Both twins were standing upright, oblivious to the fact their mother was nearby. They were obviously up to something and enjoying one another's company and she was intrigued. She stood outside their door, her arms full of clean washing.
"And now it's Bubba's turn!" cried Spag, the older twin by twenty minutes who had never once called her sister by her correct name. Mrs. Bennet firmly believed Kezia would known as Bubba until the twins were in their eighties.
"Tinkle tinkle little star, ow I under what you are..." began Bol.
The audience was silent as the little star sang with delicious beauty, then erupted into applause once the song was finished.
"Well done, Bubba! Well done," responded the X factor judge from the right-hand cot. The contestant in the left-hand cot was delighted.
"Thank you Rosie and now it's your turn!"
And so Rosie began her solo. This time it was "Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer." And again the audience respected the artist and encouraged her accordingly. The unseen agent behind the door smiled. So this was what they were up to: performing their own cot concert. She hated to interupt their fun.Instead she put down the clean washing at their door, and tip-toed away, making a note to sign up these little stars for future entertainment purposes.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Training twin bottoms
Monday, March 15 ‘10
There were two different kinds of bottoms in bite-size Modern Pemberley: the ones who were pro-potty and the ones who, if Mrs. Bennet allowed, would still be wearing nappies until they were 18. Four bottoms were trained. One bottom was not. And the untrained bot was quite clearly very happy to stay that way. She saw no need for it but was quite happy for her twin-bottomed-pal to enjoy her new-found independence.
To be honest Mrs. Bennet didn’t like potty training. Miss Megan Bennet had been somewhat later than her older siblings due to the fact that the massive double bump had prevented her mother from getting anywhere near the floor to a) reach the potty or bottom in question and b) clear up any spillages or deposits. The thought therefore of training two little derrieres at the same time did not fill Mrs. Bennet with joy.
But in the past few weeks something extraordinary happened with Miss Bennet Number Five. The smallest twin, known affectionately in written fashion as Bol, and Gorgeous in spoken form; decided to potty train herself. So efficient was this tiny dot, that not only did she take herself to the potty when she needed to go, but she wiped herself with a toilet roll put down by her side, emptied the contents into the toilet (without spilling any), climbed on to the side of her sister’s no-chance-of-anything-getting-in-here-potty, reached the flush, pressed the button, climbed down and then proceeded to wash her hands using the bath taps, pulled her pants and trousers up and did a little run and jump to end the routine. Mrs. Bennet was stunned by this spurt of independence and hoped that it would rub off onto Miss Bennet Number Four. But so far, nothing. Spag, as this twin was known on paper, Fantastic to her face, showed no sign of following.
“Well done Bubba!” she frequently yelled, accompanied by a clap. Bubba was the affectionate name Rosie gave her sister. Never once had she called her Kezia. Bubba was her name and probably would be for the rest of her life. Using the toilet or potty, dressing herself, walking everywhere and helping Mummy was a Kezia thing, not a Rosie thing. In Rosie’s world, one drew faces and people, used lots of bright coloured felt tips all day long, got pushed around in pushchairs, was dressed by Mummy only and didn’t go anywhere near a bathroom unless lifted into the bath.
These two children may share a birthday and a womb, but they were so refreshingly different that even Mrs. Bennet found it hard to believe they were twins. Miss Kezia was a mini Miss Bennet Number Two and Miss Rosie was a mini Miss Bennet Number One or Three. Miss Emily, daughter number two was Mrs. Bennet’s memory stick. She remembered every detail her mother was likely to forget. And Miss Kezia was fast becoming her back-up or hard-drive.
Only the other day Mrs. Bennet in sorting out the washing had made seven piles ready to take to the corresponding drawers, to discover one had disappeared. Without being told, the pile had been delivered to the correct landing spot by a two-year-old! Mrs. Bennet wasn’t sure how she managed to produce such a young and enthusiastic laundry helper when her older siblings just watched and let their mother get on with it.
“Please watch Kezia and take note everyone!” she remarked. But only Miss Bennet Number Two took notice. Mr. Bennet was now in Japan, so couldn’t. But he left his washing behind anyway.
Mrs. Bennet marvelled at the diversity within her household. Life was never dull. Sitting at her toddler table, drawing perfectly formed people, complete with bodies and head hair, her elder twin was now dressed in a fairy dress with a winter bobble hat on her head while her sister waddled pant-less towards the downstairs bathroom with potty in hand refusing any help. Mrs. Bennet’s nappy days were almost coming to an end. But somehow she knew there were a few more dirty bottoms in store for her yet.
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.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
No Octopus for Mrs. Bennet
Friday, March 5 ‘10
Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.
Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.
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