There are a certain number of phrases that have taken over my life. These are phrases that I have been saying every single day for the last fifteen years. Old favourites are “Don’t slam the door”, “Put your plates in the dishwasher”, “Be nice to your sister”, “Tidy your room”, “Rollerblades are for outside the house”, “Have you fed the hamster?” “Have you cleaned out the rabbits?” “Say Please”, “Say Thank You”, “Eat with your mouth closed” and “Did you brush your teeth?”
It is no wonder that occasionally I crash the car or act inappropriately in the supermarket. My once fine tuned mind has become nothing more than a recorded message machine and so this week, I tried something different. Rather than call out the commands that were all ready and waiting to go in my mind, I said noting at all just to see what happened (Please do not try this at home).
The children were ready for bed You know that wonderful time of the day when they are fed, watered, bathed and all peaceful and sleepy in pyjamas? That was where we were. It was a school night and I had even got school bags ready and water bottles filled for the next day. I was ahead of myself and had that sense of satisfaction that every mother reading this would understand.
As I was about to start the bedtime routine of tooth brushing, hot water bottles and stories, in walked Dad. Briefcase down, coat off and it all started. He had them running round the kitchen, screaming at the top of their voices, playing hide and seek, dancing like maniacs and jumping around the entire house like kangaroos. It was like watching an exercise video for the insane.
Next came the throwing game. I clicked on the kettle and watched as Dad encouraged them to throw objects as high as they possibly could in the kitchen. As far as I was concerned my choices were simple. Either put an end to the noise and madness, join in and run around like a lunatic or leave them at it, bite my tongue and leave Dad to calm them down and put them to bed. At this point, my tea was made and I decided to disappear into the front room with a magazine.
I sat in front of the fire and quietly listed off to myself all the things that I could be shouting at them. Things that would be wholly appropriate in this situation. They flowed with ease. Firstly, “Be quiet!” The noise level was through the roof and I could have done with a pair of builder’s ear protectors. Secondly, “No running around in the house” they were going faster than they ever do on school sports day and someone could get hurt. Thirdly “Turn the music down”. It was past bedtime and the disco beat could be heard in Dublin.
Next, “No Jumping” they were beginning to pogo like they were at a punk rock gig and it would end it tears. Last but not least was easy. “No throwing”. I could hear my husband calling at them to throw things higher and higher. I opened a glossy mind-numbing magazine (totally perfect for these situations) and as I began to read about Denise Van Outen and her lovely pregnancy news when there was a terrifying noise. A crash, smash and thump that sounded heavy. What it was I had no idea. I starred at Denise Van Outen on my lap and waited for more follow on noises. But they never came. Instead, silence.
Rushing into the kitchen I found my husband lying perfectly still and silent on the floor and my daughter kneeling beside him, shaking him and asking him if he was ok. Looking around, like a CSI investigator, I took in the scene. My beloved twenty year old kitchen clock that had been sitting quite happily on the wall in the kitchen, a good three metres up, was now lying severely dented beside my husbands head. Which was also severely dented.
“What happened?” I asked my daughter. “We were playing catch and I threw? up really high and it knocked the clock off and landed on Dad’s head and them hit the dishwasher”. I prized open his eyes and saw that they were not fixed and dilated. He was alive. “Where does it hurt?” I asked. My head. It’s really sore”. Luckily the clock was near the fridge (which was handy) so I got up, reached for an ice pack and slapped it on his forehead.
Next, the medicine cupboard and some pain killers. He struggled to his feet and managed to drink them down before heading for the bedroom for a lie down. I went to put our eldest to bed and as I tucked her in, tried to imagine what would have happened if the clock had actually killed him. The poor child would have faced a future of people asking how and when her father had died and she would have to tell him that they were playing catch and a clock landed on his head and killed him in the kitchen and that all the time her mother was reading trashy magazines in the front room.
I went into see the patient every half hour and checked on his pupils. They were fine. He was fine too. So fine that within an hour he was back up and about and on the football websites. A miraculous recovery all round (unlike my clock, battered and bruised clock and which is now an hour behind time).
The next day we went up to Dublin to see Jack and The Beanstalk and one of the characters shouted out to the audience: “mammies are always nagging and they are always right aren’t they”. I gave the man a standing ovation.
No comments:
Post a Comment