Mother-Love

I have Ummed and Aahed about the Wisdom of blogging at this tricky time. Am I being selfish, Airing our Dirty Washing in the Public Laundrette that is the blogosphere? Is it fair on the children, on The Husband, to broadcast the little soap opera that unfolds daily? I returned to The Happy Housewife - (that pseudonym was never meant to be quite as ironic as it appears now) - because I needed a forum in which to offload, where my thoughts and concerns would not burden the kids or The Husband at a time when they already carry the heaviest of loads. Selfish? Perhaps.


I also needed A Stern Word.

I am reminded by your emails and comments that, as women, as mothers, we share a Universal Experience. The Unconditional Love we dole out daily, like spoonfuls of medicine to ease life's knocks and bruises, doesn't take away the Bad Things, but it does make them easier to bear. Motherpie - that wise old bird - said it all in her post Skating Through Life? Yeah, Right! We want to believe that a mother's love can change the topography of our children's world, that our kiss can Part the Waves, can leave an Unfettered Path. It can't, but it sure as hell makes those mountains easier to climb. We are doing what we can. We are all doing what we can. There is no time, no need, no call for self-recriminations, for feelings of helpless inadequacy. Now that is selfish. We have a job to do. Mother-love is enough. Thank you all for reminding me.

I know it doesn't stop us worrying about our brood, it doesn't remove the nagging uncertainties that claw away at our mother-hearts, the invisible umbilicus that ties us to our babies forever, however old and wise they may grow... but it is all we can do.

So after a momentary blip, a sef-indulgent whine, I pick myself up and get on with loving. Thank you all for sharing the Womanly Wisdom! This is why I came back. So, guess what is for dinner tonight? Shepherd's Pie! The culinary equivalent of a sticking plaster.

Camping and Cutbacks

I do not enjoy camping. I like a comfortable, flushable lavatory for starters and prefer not to wash my hair - or any other part of me - in a bucket. Therefore, Life Under Canvas, is not an Attractive Proposition.

The Husband and I had a long chat last night about Our Options. My immediate concerns were obviously the children and whether we could still afford to feed them or not. We came to the conclusion that we are probably honour-bound to do so - there must be a clause about Appropriate Nourishment in our parenting contract - although I don't actually remember signing anything... Of course, the other pressing headache is whether or not we can afford the rent. Short of putting the kids up for auction on eBay (and we certainly wouldn't get much for Number Three), or dusting off the family-sized tent that is stored in the garage, we concluded that at the moment we will have to stay put. So it is baked beans on toast for dinner again this evening. And tomorrow. And the day after...

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I have met the Fussiest Woman in the World. Number Three had his fourth birthday a few weeks ago and we felt a party was in order. The Husband was in charge of games and I was in charge of tea. The kids played sleeping lions, balloon tennis and jumping-on-the-sofa, while I served up homemade miniature lamb and mango burgers, muffin pizzas, cheese and pineapple hedgehogs, chocolate biscuit cake and stripey jelly. It was all going rather well, until the kids came to sit down for tea. This child, the offspring of Mrs Fussy-Knickers, looked in awe at the feast laid out before him, while she emptied his glass of squash into the sink. "Just water for him, please" she requested. "And he doesn't 'do' dairy or wheat either," she added. Poor kid. That ruled out virtually everything on the table, except jelly. And he didn't like jelly. He gazed with imploring eyes at his little friends all tucking in with relish, while dribbling with Wishful Anticipation.

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While I had my back turned the other day, Number Three found the kitchen scissors. I had taken Number Four's bottles from the dishwasher ready for use and lined them up on the side. In less than the time it took me to close the dishwasher and dry my hands, Number Three had snipped the ends of all the rubber teats. "I have been doing cutting", he announced...

Bless him. Still, given our current circumstances, perhaps he's got the right attitude.

Singing in the Rain

It never Rains but it Pours.

I don't like anoraks. Or cagoules. I can't bear being trapped inside a hood and under no circumstances could I ever be persauded to tie the string beneath my chin. Even at the risk of getting Frizzy Hair. But recently I have begun to consider the Wisdom of Buying a Raincoat.


The Husband announced, one morning on waking, that He Would Be Leaving. Within half an hour, his bags were packed and he kissed the children goodbye. Apparently, so the woman at Marriage Guidance tells us, this is a Very Common Occurrence. Men who are stressed at work often attempt to relieve the pressure by walking out on their families.

Oh. So that it explains it then. Funny, but it doesn't make it feel any better.

He imparts the news, on his return a few days later, that we teeter on the edge of bankruptcy. I have known for some time that money was in Short Supply, but the scale of the debt frightens me. We agree to work on our Communication and the floodgates open and I am horrified to hear what he has been keeping secret. Obviously I make apple bread and flapjacks and chocolate biscuit cake in a bid to salve the sore bits with sugar...

Number One is arrested and charged with assault. My autistic angel tastes the Real World for the first time, away from the warmth of my kitchen, where no amount of Shepherds' Pie can teach the need for Restraint, Control, Patience...

They say Bad Luck comes in Threes, don't they? Just when I am beginning to notice a break in the clouds, The Husband discovers evidence to suggest someone's fingers have been Dipping into the Till at work. 'Dipping' is an understatement. 'Shovelling' might be more appropriate. He fires the culprit, but we reel from the betrayal. I am not sure that we have made the Right Call. It is hard to believe that this boy, whom I have loved with Roast Chicken at my table, whose hand I have held as if he were my own, is not what we had thought. Can my Womanly Intuition be wrong? The danger of mixing Business with Pleasure...

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I still shudder at the thought of a Sensible Waterproof. I will compromise. I will use an umbrella.