Boys, why do you do it to us?
If there’s one thing that really fucks me off more than anything else about the opposite sex, it’s my partner announcing the m-i-l will be arriving imminently. This particular bug bear of mine is enough to make me celibate. Alright, you called my bluff… but at the very least it’s enough to make me single. I hate cleaning the house with a passion. I AM NOT a friggin’ maid. Yet if I don’t get up off my arse, who else is going to be bothered?
Not my three year old twins.
They’re too busy chucking Lego bricks left, right and centre, tearing up books, crayoning the walls, smearing banana encrusted hands over the TV screen, patio doors and bay windows, embellishing my dining table with stickers of Thomas, Olaf and Dora, dribbling squash down their once clean clothes, and invading my make-up bag to re-invent themselves as infant clowns the minute I turn my back for like an entire millisecond.
Not the dog.
He’s too busy malting additional hair on the sofa and rugs, a trail of eau de chien blazing behind him.
Not the cat.
She’s too busy bringing dead things into the house.
Not the budgie.
Yes, we have one of them and all. Don’t ask. Another of my partner’s weird hobbies spilling over from childhood to teens to fatherhood. And if you think they don’t make a mess, I’ll give you ours for a fortnight. You’ll have a bigger harvest of seeds (and shit) than a windmill.
Not the cleaner.
‘We can’t afford one‘, he says.
‘It’s not that I expected you to play housewife the minute you walked away from your high flying career‘ – he says. How he loves it when he squeezes that in… in my previous life I was cabin crew (formerly known as an air hostess or trolley dolly)… 5 seconds pause for his snigger – ‘it’s just that, well, you’re home now for the forseeable future so… two birds with the same stone and all that…‘
So… as I told you; it’s just ME, MYSELF and I.
And my rubber gloves, dusters, a vacuum cleaner that’s seen better days, spit, polish and elbow grease. But where to start? Where to bloody start? Because it’s all very well calling me from your snug bubble of an office to tell me that Hyacinth Bleedin’ Bouquet will be arriving in her chauffeur driven limo in 10 minutes, but have you seen what our menagarie have done to the place since you stepped out of the threshold this morning and into your cosy world? Exactly. Ex-flaming-xactly!
Never in my wildest dreams would I do this to YOU!
You’d die on the spot. You’d wilt into a pool of surrender. You’d faint in defeat. You’d wither into the ether. It is not funny. I repeat: It is not hilarious/a giggle/a larf to spring my would-be (if-you-ever-got-down-on-one-knee) mother-in-law on me like this. Because she isn’t normal. She’s posh. And I’m not quite sure what happened to her son… but that’s neither here nor there. Because I am here. And you are most definitely there. And there is dust, crap and shit EVERYWHERE.
It’s not that I don’t like a visitor.
Every woman loves a good natter. It’s human nature. True to stereotypical form we DO want people round to share tea and gossip with. We love it when our friends pop over for a coffee so we can dissect the state of affairs that is Louise’s hair, Nat and Dave’s marriage, Ellie’s pokey-nosed child and Jen’s latest catch and his uber pert arse. But these kind of visitors are a) planned and b) realistic. Key word here oh boyfriend of mine. REALISTIC. These people live in the real world. The world that is carpet stains, tissues full of snot wedged down the side of sofas, Lego catching un-slippered toes and heels unawares, glitter stubbornly clinging to frayed rugs, cobwebs and spiders etched into far flung corners,
I start in the most offensive place and work my down.
The bathroom. Yeah, thanks for the log you’ve left floating that won’t budge an inch. In a house with merely one lavatory, seeing that this morning was the ultimate gift.
11:00am – no sign of her. I wipe the sweat from my brow and dare to reward myself with a quick sneaky cuppa. And hang on, hang on… before you accuse me of starting too late, let me explain to you that the hours between 6:00am and 10:59am I am ironing his shirt that he forgot to do last night, packing his lunch box, feeding, dressing and washing the twins, showering myself, grabbing a piece of toast whilst scribbling down a makeshift shopping list, walking the dog with the kids, popping to the shop to get the stopgap groceries. I think that was it. I will admit to watching 5 minutes of This Morning when I boiled the kettle having got back in the door parched and bedraggled thanks to the untimely downpour and me remembering everyone’s umbrella but my own.
11:30am – I emerge from said bathroom. And then both the twins miraculously need to poo. Like right at the same minute. Back to Square One. A squirt of bleach will have to do it now.
11:40am – Sod the state of the bathroom (and I’m hoping and praying that when she is upstairs she won’t decide to snoop in our bedroom…) as for the twins’ room, well, I can cover myself by saying they’ve emptied their wardrobe and toy chest all over the floor. It would hardly be a lie. I tend to the stairs. They’re diggered in talcum powder, clean and dirty knickers, teddy bears, dolls with felt tips rolled up in their hair like curlers. What The actual Fuck? I trip over miniature furniture from fairy houses and My Little Ponies whose legs stick up in the air as if rigor mortis set in overnight. Barbie tries to seduce Ken on the railings but he blanks her (and me) hoping we’ll forgive him for the chocolate covered raisins he’s pooped all over my oatmeal shag.
12:01pm – I’m beginning to wonder if she’s coming at all? The phone rings and I spend half an hour trying to politely rid myself of a persistent cold caller from somewhere in India. I need to go to Assertive Adults Training Class. Does that exist? Maybe if I had, HE would be back here dealing with all of this and I would be cruising 37,000 feet above the Med right now…
12:31pm – The twins need lunch. But what if m-i-l is expecting me to have laid on a spread? I hastily reach for Jamie Oliver’s Jamie At Home book and seek out a recipe. The page flips open to Grilled Butterflied Monkfish with a Sweet Runner Bean Stew. As I work my way down the list of 12 ingredients, I quickly realise I have but 2. Baked beans on toast it is then. Who buys these books? Oh yeah. People like me. I wonder if Jools has to contend with this kind of malarkey when Jay’s off on location and promptly toss the book in the bin where it belongs.
12:50pm – The twins have mainly covered themselves and the dog in baked beans. I nibble on their leftover toast. Shit. I really haven’t done a thing. The house looks just as rancid as it did first thing this morning. Where to start? Where to bloody start? The kitchen I guess. Hygiene over the appearance of the lounge and all that. Although the latter definitely wouldn’t pass health and safety. But nope. I’m sticking with my guns. I’ll tackle the kitchen. Too late for a full on floor mop though. Anti-bacterial wipes it is! Ah, the sweet smell of the fake and on-the-surface-of-it, clean home. Where would the world be without you, my friends?
13:10pm – Door bell rings! SHIT. She’s here. I haven’t covered a fifth of the mental TO DO list in my head. I stash toys in cupboards as I run to the door. At least I have my apron on. It’s gotta score me some brownie points.
13:45pm – It was only Jackie from 3 doors down. Turns out she’s hand a ding-dong with her husband. I keep trying to wind the conversation up, drop a million hints a minute. Then Twin 1 tugs my coat tails, tells me Twin 2 has plasticine stuck in her hair…
14:05pm – I tried and tried and tried to avoid the scissors. But to no avail. And I’m no hairdresser. So now Hyacinth is sure to notice. I bribe Twin 2 to wear a hat. Mummy will take you to Toys R Us tomorrow… and Burger King for lunch… and swimming at the weekend… and one of my special ice cream sundaes for tea. Just keep it on, Sweet Cheeks, Okay?
14:15pm – Change of plan. If I can get m-i-l to stay in the lounge (which should be entirely possible), then actually, she needn’t venture into any other room in the house. The kitchen’s as good as it’s going to get. The baked bean stains on the wall are merely a figment of my imagination and I grab my dusters instead. I wouldn’t usually zip around this room at the speed of light, but she’s going to be here by half past. I can just feel it. My gut instinct kicks in and I decide I can vacuum with one hand and polish with the other. And I’m doing good. I’m doing real good… until I knock the pot plant flying covering my powder pink carpet with thick black soil, lose my balance, twist my ankle, let go of the Dyson and cringe as it clunks and clinks choking itself on Lego.
And then I laugh. I don’t just mean a giggle. Nor a guffaw. I laugh until I think I might die. I laugh until there are tears coming out of my eyes. The kids jump on top of me, now the dog and I swear the cat was almost tempted too. Mother-in-law: you can arrive in ten minutes or ten weeks. And you can take us or flippin’ well leave us.
We are who we are. And this is how we live. Moment to moment. Mishap to mishap. In the dust and the chaos. Which puts me in mind of the most awesome poem. I swear it was written just for me:
Dust if you Must, by Rose Milligan
Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world’s out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.
Still, I pull myself back together. I do what I realistically can. Then I stop to make a proper sandwich, and a cuppa. I put my feet up and watch a re-run of Loose Women… as many of us Ladies of The Manor do (secretly at least). And what difference did any of that time out make anyway? ‘Cos she still didn’t show up until bloody 5:00pm.
I know. 5:00 sodding pm.
She stayed half an hour. Sat in the armchair – the one without her son’s dirty socks down the back of it (I know because I could smell them down the back of mine), then rose like The Queen from her throne and announced:
‘Well, I’d better get going and let you sort out my son’s dinner…’
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Note from the Editor. Many thanks to Lorna Giles for being our latest House Guest. Ro read more about Lorna, check our her other blogs here.
