I overheard four-year-old and seven-year-old boy's discussing me in the bath the other day. 'Mummy needs a man' said the seven-year-old wisely as he poured a cup of water over his head. The four-year-old solemnly nodded in agreement, 'yeth' he lisped,'cos daddy's gone'.
They have a point. This point was never more explicit than last week as my car glided to a halt at the side of the road, just off a junction, due to an electronic failure which I had been studiously ignoring for some days, despite the big red light on my dashboard flashing 'THE END IS NIGH!'.
It was, as the poet says, pissing down from the heavens and for a moment I sat there, thinking, 'how can I solve this without getting out of the car?' Had I been more attentive in the custodial duties of my mobile phone, I may have been able to solve it by phoning my mechanic, but sadly I hadn't laid eyes on it in days and it was no doubt languishing at the bottom of a toy box somewhere. So there I sat, with a car full of bickering children, in the middle of the countryside and some miles from my house, thinking 'this is why I got married -- to avoid this very thing'. Laying my head against the steering wheel I wailed 'I need a man...this here is MAN work....!'
The children sat silently until someone bravely whimpered 'mum, you're frightening us'.
Pulling myself together I instructed ten-year-old girl 'don't let anyone get out of the car, I'm going to get help!'
Giving the hand break an extra hard tug, I pushed the car door open against the pelting rain outside - 'I won't be long' I cried, as I slammed the door and started running towards a house which looked to be about 200 yards up the road. Within seconds I realised my mistake, which was a) getting out of the car b) thinking that I could run (I haven't run since circa 1978 when I came last in the cross-country run around the school field, after which I wrote all athletic activities off as the work of the devil)
I stopped in my tracks and turned and started running in the opposite direction, across the junction and up the drive of a bungalow, which appeared to be closer. I rang the bell and stood panting and waiting. And waiting. No one in. Looking back at my stranded car, containing ten years of reproduction, blood, sweat and tears, and terrified that a truck might round the corner and plough into them, I soldiered on. At the next house I could immediately see an elderly woman snoozing in the armchair. Forget it. I ran on to the next house where I fell upon a couple who were in the process of leaving and asked to use their phone.
Twenty minutes later my mechanic arrived and thankfully saved the day, but the experience made me realise that a) I definitely, as seven-year-old put it, need a man, and b) buying an eleven-year-old car was a mistake -- no matter how short a time I needed it for -- particularly since DH isn't around to lift the bonnet and do 'man things' to it occasionally.
Having said that, there are some compensations to this man-less state, one of which is the ability to watch whatever I like on the television. This means no sport whatsoever; nothing involving gun-toting women in very tight outfits, something which I'm usually forced to watch through gritted teeth so as not appear bitter and envious; and as much costume drama as I can humanly digest, which is quite a lot actually, with 'Downton Abbey' being my current feast.
It also means eating crackers and cheese for dinner and not shaving my legs for, oh months at this stage, leaving me currently resembling something which has wandered out of Dublin zoo, at least from the knees down....
Diary of a one year old...
Well one-year-old has finally graduated to walking and now fills his days fitfully clambering up onto the dining table -- sending the entire family dashing to his aid as he repeatedly plonks himself precariously onto the edge -- while busily and methodically clearing everything off of it and onto the floor. Either that or toddling out to the bathroom to put one of the remote controls down the toilet, something which he is inexplicably compelled to do whenever the opportunity arises.
One-year-olds are a roller-coaster ride of pink-cheeked, candy-coated charm and utter, edge-of-your seat, white-knuckle fear as they seem hell bent on committing as many acts of kamikaze as they can fit into their day, slotted neatly in between watching the Teletubbies and afternoon naps, and the entire family are in a permanent state of emergency as not a minute goes by without someone shrieking 'Look, the baby's just put a coin in his mouth!' or 'mum, he's climbing into the washing machine!'.
This is surely Darwinism at its best -- were it not for their heart-melting cuteness, we'd surely just leave them on the steps of the nearest church or convent, concluding that they were far more trouble than they're worth.
They have a point. This point was never more explicit than last week as my car glided to a halt at the side of the road, just off a junction, due to an electronic failure which I had been studiously ignoring for some days, despite the big red light on my dashboard flashing 'THE END IS NIGH!'.
It was, as the poet says, pissing down from the heavens and for a moment I sat there, thinking, 'how can I solve this without getting out of the car?' Had I been more attentive in the custodial duties of my mobile phone, I may have been able to solve it by phoning my mechanic, but sadly I hadn't laid eyes on it in days and it was no doubt languishing at the bottom of a toy box somewhere. So there I sat, with a car full of bickering children, in the middle of the countryside and some miles from my house, thinking 'this is why I got married -- to avoid this very thing'. Laying my head against the steering wheel I wailed 'I need a man...this here is MAN work....!'
The children sat silently until someone bravely whimpered 'mum, you're frightening us'.
Pulling myself together I instructed ten-year-old girl 'don't let anyone get out of the car, I'm going to get help!'
Giving the hand break an extra hard tug, I pushed the car door open against the pelting rain outside - 'I won't be long' I cried, as I slammed the door and started running towards a house which looked to be about 200 yards up the road. Within seconds I realised my mistake, which was a) getting out of the car b) thinking that I could run (I haven't run since circa 1978 when I came last in the cross-country run around the school field, after which I wrote all athletic activities off as the work of the devil)
I stopped in my tracks and turned and started running in the opposite direction, across the junction and up the drive of a bungalow, which appeared to be closer. I rang the bell and stood panting and waiting. And waiting. No one in. Looking back at my stranded car, containing ten years of reproduction, blood, sweat and tears, and terrified that a truck might round the corner and plough into them, I soldiered on. At the next house I could immediately see an elderly woman snoozing in the armchair. Forget it. I ran on to the next house where I fell upon a couple who were in the process of leaving and asked to use their phone.
Twenty minutes later my mechanic arrived and thankfully saved the day, but the experience made me realise that a) I definitely, as seven-year-old put it, need a man, and b) buying an eleven-year-old car was a mistake -- no matter how short a time I needed it for -- particularly since DH isn't around to lift the bonnet and do 'man things' to it occasionally.
Having said that, there are some compensations to this man-less state, one of which is the ability to watch whatever I like on the television. This means no sport whatsoever; nothing involving gun-toting women in very tight outfits, something which I'm usually forced to watch through gritted teeth so as not appear bitter and envious; and as much costume drama as I can humanly digest, which is quite a lot actually, with 'Downton Abbey' being my current feast.
It also means eating crackers and cheese for dinner and not shaving my legs for, oh months at this stage, leaving me currently resembling something which has wandered out of Dublin zoo, at least from the knees down....
Diary of a one year old...
Well one-year-old has finally graduated to walking and now fills his days fitfully clambering up onto the dining table -- sending the entire family dashing to his aid as he repeatedly plonks himself precariously onto the edge -- while busily and methodically clearing everything off of it and onto the floor. Either that or toddling out to the bathroom to put one of the remote controls down the toilet, something which he is inexplicably compelled to do whenever the opportunity arises.
One-year-olds are a roller-coaster ride of pink-cheeked, candy-coated charm and utter, edge-of-your seat, white-knuckle fear as they seem hell bent on committing as many acts of kamikaze as they can fit into their day, slotted neatly in between watching the Teletubbies and afternoon naps, and the entire family are in a permanent state of emergency as not a minute goes by without someone shrieking 'Look, the baby's just put a coin in his mouth!' or 'mum, he's climbing into the washing machine!'.
This is surely Darwinism at its best -- were it not for their heart-melting cuteness, we'd surely just leave them on the steps of the nearest church or convent, concluding that they were far more trouble than they're worth.
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| Survival of the cutest? |
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