The Girl With Tears In Her Eyes

I packed the car early on Friday morning, and after breakfast the children and I (DH was planning to join us later) set off for Kingscourt and Nanny and Grandpa’s house. DH and I had been invited to a work colleague’s wedding in the North, so we had planned to go via his parents’ house, leaving the children with them overnight.

The car journey was, as anticipated, somewhat challenging. Ten minutes into the two-hour drive, the Small Girl began to fuss relentlessly:

“Mum, are we nearly there?”
“No darling, it will be a little while longer yet”
“Oh… can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s house?” she countered
“It’s probably not a good idea to start looking just yet” I replied, already feeling exasperated.
“Can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s car then, Mum?” she asked, her voice starting to sound mildly hysterical.
“NANNY!” shouted the Very Small Boy in agreement.

I turned up the radio and began to sing along, in the hope of distracting them.

“Muuuummm! Stop singin’!” whined the Small Girl, with a very good approximation of teenage exasperation.
“Oh – don’t you like my singing?” I replied, sounding hurt.
“Well it’s OK… except for the words” She paused, before adding decisively “and the tune.”

When we arrived at the wedding the following day, I was feeling understandably nervous at the prospect of not drinking. I have to admit that, having only decided a couple of weeks ago to turn my back on alcohol, the idea of enforced sobriety whilst all around me were rolling drunk didn’t particularly appeal. And for the first few hours of socialising, I did miss that reassuring glass of wine in my hand. For one thing, it would have distracted me from missing the children. But in the end, I decided, remaining sober was simply a matter of having slightly less fun the night before and significantly more fun the morning after.

Shortly before making my excuses and retiring to bed, I sat idly near the band, watching the wedding guests on the dance floor. And suddenly I felt incredibly touched by the small details: an old couple dancing intently but frowning with serious concentration; a group of carefully groomed young women (their dresses complex, their hairstyles more so), tripping over their heels and laughing self-consciously; the Groom’s awkward movements as he danced with his bride, trying carefully to avoid stepping on the dirty hem of her beautiful dress.

I suppose to the casual observer, I must have looked like someone who’d had a few too many, but my tears really had nothing at all to do with alcohol. I was just a girl who was overwhelmed, suddenly, by the frailty of humanity, in all its beautiful vulnerability.

Extremism

“I don’t know why you do it to yourself, Darling” remarked DH as I set off in the drizzle at 8.30am on Sunday morning for a run. As I pounded along the country lanes, a straggling assortment of farm dogs snapping at my heels, I wondered what he had meant. To me, it made perfect sense because I’ve made up my mind about this: I will become a runner, and I will therefore go running three times a week, regardless of the weather, the ridiculously early hour or the fact that I happen to have a nasty throat infection.

“Fair play to ye!” called out a pyjama-clad woman tending her front garden, as I sped past feeling slightly surreal (probably on account of my temperature).
“It’s got to be done!” I gasped grimly in reply, and I meant it: since having the Small Girl four years ago, I have wanted and needed to tone up and lose some weight. Once the Very Small Boy settled at Playschool and I had a little time, I decided to throw myself into the business of Getting Fit.

As I made my way, red-faced and breathless, back through our estate towards our house, it occurred to me that I am a person of extremes; whatever I happen to be doing, whether it’s cooking Sunday lunch, crocheting a throw, getting fit or simply going for a few drinks, I do it to the extreme – and with a single-mindedness that occasionally borders on the obsessive.

“Well, I’m running a lot, and I’ve lost a stone”, I told Granddad on the telephone this week.
“Mummy, which stone did you lose?” piped up a Small Voice in the background, reminding me that, fanaticism aside, it is really best to try not to take oneself too seriously.

Still, I’ve decided – and this is quite momentous, even in view of my current puritanical inclinations – to give up alcohol. Because as with everything else, when I’m doing it (which is admittedly rarely), I’m usually overdoing it. And since I’ve decided that I’m Being Healthy, I might as well take things to the extreme and give up that unpleasantly seductive poison altogether.

But I wouldn't have made the decision unless I absolutely meant to see it through: when I make up my mind to do something, there's no going back. That's the unexpectedly useful thing about being an extremist.

Cupcake Massacre

“What does a horse say, Pootle?” I asked the Very Small Boy one afternoon last week as we browsed through his animal picture book.
“Beep beep!” he replied enthusiastically.

I was attempting to distract him while the Small Girl decorated a cake. A plain sponge, a spatula, a tin of chocolate frosting and assorted pots of sprinkles, and half an hour later, we had a monstrous, toppling mound of chocolatey goo for her to take to Playschool the following morning to share with her friends.

“Mum, am I four yet?” She asked me, loading a spatula-full of chocolate frosting into her mouth and then wiping her sleeve across her face.
“No darling, you’ll be four tomorrow –when you wake in the morning, then you’ll be four and after Playschool, all your friends will be coming over for your party!”
“Yaay!” she cried, leaping up and down, and I beamed at her infectious enthusiasm, despite my growing dread at the prospect of having my lovely house taken over by hordes of screaming preschoolers.

The party the following day was incredibly hard work; besides baking several types of cupcake, I had undertaken to create a “Finding Nemo” cake, as well as providing sandwiches and snacks and party bags. And then there were balloons to blow up, presents to wrap and party games to plan. And that was before the children arrived: screeching and running and throwing and shouting and trampling bits of sticky cake into the floor. But of course in the end, all that mattered was that the Small Girl had a fabulous time with all her friends, dashing happily about in the sunshine and stuffing themselves silly with sweet treats.

Some time later, after all her guests had left and the Small Girl sat happily in the kitchen playing with her presents, DH was sweeping bits of wrapping paper and used paper plates into the recycle bin as I chiselled cupcake remnants from the kitchen floor.

“That was hard work!” he remarked.
“Yes well… at least we only have to do it once a year!” I replied.

Then we both turned with slow and dawning horror in the direction of the Very Small Boy who, oblivious, was standing by the patio door and staring out to the garden where he’d seen a neighbourhood cat.

“Neigh!” he cried, pointing to the cat. And, nodding in quiet agreement with himself, he continued to watch until it leapt delicately over the fence and disappeared out of sight.