Happy crappers

Looking back at my carefree first posting on this blog, I want to cry. Hot, bitter, angry tears. Oh the air of light hearted merriment when I stated that I was leaving my family with a young, thin, vibrant, Polish au pair for a week. She was not left all alone with the pixie (five year old Tikki), Albert, (seven, who wants to be a nuclear physicist, he has aspergers), Josh, ten (more about him later), and my secret favourite, Sebs (13). No, I left the aged retainer, (my 84 year old mother who hobbles around slowly, crashing into opened dishwashers, or catching her fragile old skin on the odd nail still sticking out of our horrendous "DIY Shaker Kitchen". (For DIY, read, my husband Ghengis, furiously sawing anything to hand, slamming nails into other inanimate objects, then varnishing the whole lot with something that smelt like burning rubber).

I also left Ghengis "in charge", (he needs to retain the illusion that he is the "Head of the Household"), told him to make sure that everybody was fed, even if it was only cereal, and then swanned off to the North of England for a week.

My phone was strangely silent for the entire week away. I usually multitask furiously at training seminars, "taking calls from the European Youth Parliament", which involve a furious/anguished/sobbing/howling child at the other end of the phone roaring incoherently, whilst I pretend to talk to Jurgen from Bonn about Transnational Youth Initiatives.
Me: "Jurgen, I think that is a brilliant idea", then hissing in a low threatening tone, "go and tell granny that Albert has left a poo on your pillow, for God's sake, what am I meant to do about it Josh", "yes Jurgen", brightly and in my special "mid European Youth Worker voice", "I feel that including Macedonia in our next project will emphasise the European links that we have established over the last seven years, and promote inclusion of countries in danger of becoming marginalised at the "edge" of Europe", then hissing frustratedly, "Josh, I am not a bad mother, what do you mean Granny and Dad agree, put them on the phone, NOW, no, I cant talk now, look bye, bye, bye, love you..........................."

This trip was vaguely unnerving in that not one of them rang. Not once. I rang every evening to say goodnight, and the phone simply rang out, then switched to voice mail. I rang the aged retainer's private line, but that rang out too. (she lives in a granny flat attached to the house, but isnt particularly well trained, and spends most of her time limping around my part of the house, or bleeding, or worse, just standing.) Is it just me, or do other people find that however much they love, nay, adore their parents, as they age, they do this strange action. They simply stand, or sit, and stare at you. Ghengis gets goosebumps when my mother does that to him. He always says plaintively that he feels that she would like to shorten parts of his anatomy for the injustices he has served upon her daughter, (me).. I point out scathingly that she would have to find it first!
Back to the phone lines. Finally, I get hold of Ghengis at work. He sounds very chipper, in good form, and says brightly that the kids are all well, cats and dogs happy and calm, aged retainer wound free and cheerful, and that the au pair is "ok".

Hackles and hairs rise on the back of my neck. "Oh, just ok", say I, in a quiet, calm voice.
Ghengis being a particularly stupid example of the coarser sex says, "well actually she's brilliant. She has taught the children how to fish with flies, and we all had a picnic on the beach yesterday".
I was so angry that I pretended to get cut off, "Ghengis, Ghenghis, can you hear me, tap tap tap, bloody connections".
My pleasant mood was shattered, and I realised that a. my children no longer loved me
b. I am not just a little overweight, I am actually turning into a walking exercise ball, and c. when I get home, the children will casually hug me, then turn, en masse, and thunder back to "Evalinka" with shrill cries of happiness.

So miserable I drink three bottles of white wine with youth workers from Bolton, and end up dancing to clips from Youtube of Toots and the Maytells, Jah Shaka, and long forgotten gems from the King Tubbys, Studio One era of Jamaican music.
Youth worker from Bolton, (Jason, eugh) tells me that I have brilliant taste in music, and he wished that his mum was like me. Oh my good god. He is 32, and I am merely, only forty four years old. I slink back to my room, (shared, with a youth worker called Daniella, from Malta, who snores horrendously) and cry.
I put my life into bullet points.
My children hate me.
I look much much older than my age.
I am fat, my hair is thinning, and my face gets a violent shade of cerise when I drink white wine.
White wine tastes far far worse than Ouzo when it comes back up again.
Shit, I have just brushed my vomity teeth with Daniella's toothbrush.
Where was I,
fat fair, and forty four.
great.

forty four years, 7 months, and twenty five days old

my son was thirteen today, and I ate steadily, nay, chomped my way through a bowl of nachos, four sausage rolls, a slice of chocolate cake, (home made by Ghengis, partner with an attitude problem), three glasses of ribena, and a fudge finger.
The children, (mine) were vile. Son with aspergers alternately shrieked, hit, and bit people. pixie like five year old roared when "her" friend dared play with someone else. A friends child pooed himself, and I left him to stew slowly in his own juices. Ghengis kept emerging apoplectic with rage to shout at the ensembled kinder, who discovered that SWITCHING the bouncy castle off, and letting it collapse on TOP of everyone, was THE BEST FUN<>
Sultry pierced princess, (l8 going on 2 and half, still has trantrums) screamed and bounced the loudest and hardest.
I weigh around l4 stone, am shaped like a condom filled with water, and now take primark size l8 trousers. I need to a. lose weight, b. find a reason to lose weight, and c. do it pretty fast before I turn into those people who are so big, they lie around in bed all day wearing nappies, and ordering eight chinese takeaways at a time.
They must have people to enable them, but seriously, how could you "love" someone whose bottom you had to clean. That is venturing into fetish territory.
Going away next week, leaving four of the five kinders, Ghengis, my mother, and a beautiful, thin, fun, Polish au pair to look after the family. Will report back to blog after being away.
ciao,
Antonia