One of the paradoxes of motherhood is that whilst you are afforded the privilege of a ready audience, there to receive your performances at will, performing is more often than not such an onerous task that you really don't want to do it.
In the early days, I was both amazed at my little listener (my very young and extremely alert daughter Wafa) and grateful to her for being so unconditionally attentive. She listened to me sing, tell stories, talk nonsense, proofread my essays, and even vent in g-rated rafa-speak about the utter loneliness I felt in a failing marriage. She listened, wide-eyed, looking permanently interested, and even grateful herself for the observant company.
12 years on, and my listener, along with her siblings, seem to be all listened out. Perhaps its because the content is rerun a little too often, or that its all too familiar now, all very old. Or perhaps, just perhaps, its because much of what I say is directive guidance which can sometimes be received as me 'lecturing'.
Yes, I admit, I feel like I have slowly morphed into the nagging mum I'd sworn I'd never be, which has ultimately, put a real dampener on my desire to perform/speak. I don't even want to be an audience for myself, sick to death of my own voice and its constant 'do this' and 'don't do that'. Which is something, 12 years ago, I would never have thought possible...
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Saturday, 12 June 2010
Organised chaos and other facts of life in a household of 9
When people find out that I have 7 children, after their initial (predictable) looks of either gross disapproval or acute shock, or both, the first thing they ask is 'how do you do it?'
The simple answer is, half the time, I really don't know. It is bloody hard work. And sometimes, it does get all too much, and I do feel like buying a one-way ticket to anywhere I can holiday indefinitely.
Take this very moment, for instance.
Baby Jacob is grizzling, bored, in his playpen. The plethora of stimulating vibrant-coloured toys that cause me physical pain just to glance at them are simply not appeasing- no, he would much rather be sitting on my lap, nursing- or not. Just being attached to my person somehow is his life goal for the foreseeable future.
Eamonn, after having embarrassed me at the shops with his foul-mouthed impromptu/unpredictable outbursts to complete strangers and his ability to guilt me into buying much 'junk' we don't need and shouldn't eat, has been dropped off to my mum's place for the night, reluctantly of course, despite the fact that she spoils the little rascal rotten. He will be awaiting pick-up by 9am, because a single night is the absolute limit he can bear to be away from home.
Thomas, as always, has refused to eat anything that I have prepared, and has only just come off his computer game. He now needs dinner (God only knows what!), bath, bedtime story x 100, and bed. He will undoubtedly still have a few more fights with Danny before he calls it a night (they've only had 658 fights today, which is well short of their record for a single day).
Danny has been stood beside me as I type, repeatedly asking for the ipod touch his dad bought him for his birthday, which was confiscated about a week ago (for poor behaviour), and he's not taking no for an answer. As a consequence, I have had to retype this sentence about a dozen times and I'm still not even sure it makes any sense.
Raneem is off pottering in the kitchen somewhere. She is the one child that causes me the most mother-guilt simply because she is the least needy. I feel guilty because she is always so good. And believe me, there is nothing more emotionally draining than mother-guilt. Darn society for making it so.
-Oh look, she's just brought me a coffee:
"Here you go mum, a coffee made with my love", she exclaims, smiling.
*sigh*
Wafa is sat behind me, drinking a hot chocolate she made, which probably means there is some sort of spillage/mess waiting for me in the kitchen. She is trying to use the other computer, but Sean wants her to go bed and read. I estimate that this fight will go on for the best part of the next half hour, unless I of course intercede, which usually ends up with Sean and I fighting instead.
The house, predictably for a Saturday, looks like a bomb hit it. I would need to be up and cleaning for at least 3 hours straight to get it to even resemble a tidy abode. As it stands, a tidy sty is all I could hope for tonight, with how lousy I'm feeling.
Let's not forget that tomorrow is my husband's birthday. I haven't even bought him a present yet. I've been too caught up with the thousand other things on my to-do list, and the million things racing through my mind at any given moment.
Okay, its now 10 minutes later, and all of the above has changed. They are now all, bar Jacob (who is now shouting hysterically in his high chair), being chased into their rooms by Sean, who apparently 'has had enough'.
I had better go intercede.
...perhaps if we are fighting, I might be able to delay the birthday present for a day or two.
Who am I kidding?!
The simple answer is, half the time, I really don't know. It is bloody hard work. And sometimes, it does get all too much, and I do feel like buying a one-way ticket to anywhere I can holiday indefinitely.
Take this very moment, for instance.
Baby Jacob is grizzling, bored, in his playpen. The plethora of stimulating vibrant-coloured toys that cause me physical pain just to glance at them are simply not appeasing- no, he would much rather be sitting on my lap, nursing- or not. Just being attached to my person somehow is his life goal for the foreseeable future.
Eamonn, after having embarrassed me at the shops with his foul-mouthed impromptu/unpredictable outbursts to complete strangers and his ability to guilt me into buying much 'junk' we don't need and shouldn't eat, has been dropped off to my mum's place for the night, reluctantly of course, despite the fact that she spoils the little rascal rotten. He will be awaiting pick-up by 9am, because a single night is the absolute limit he can bear to be away from home.
Thomas, as always, has refused to eat anything that I have prepared, and has only just come off his computer game. He now needs dinner (God only knows what!), bath, bedtime story x 100, and bed. He will undoubtedly still have a few more fights with Danny before he calls it a night (they've only had 658 fights today, which is well short of their record for a single day).
Danny has been stood beside me as I type, repeatedly asking for the ipod touch his dad bought him for his birthday, which was confiscated about a week ago (for poor behaviour), and he's not taking no for an answer. As a consequence, I have had to retype this sentence about a dozen times and I'm still not even sure it makes any sense.
Raneem is off pottering in the kitchen somewhere. She is the one child that causes me the most mother-guilt simply because she is the least needy. I feel guilty because she is always so good. And believe me, there is nothing more emotionally draining than mother-guilt. Darn society for making it so.
-Oh look, she's just brought me a coffee:
"Here you go mum, a coffee made with my love", she exclaims, smiling.
*sigh*
Wafa is sat behind me, drinking a hot chocolate she made, which probably means there is some sort of spillage/mess waiting for me in the kitchen. She is trying to use the other computer, but Sean wants her to go bed and read. I estimate that this fight will go on for the best part of the next half hour, unless I of course intercede, which usually ends up with Sean and I fighting instead.
The house, predictably for a Saturday, looks like a bomb hit it. I would need to be up and cleaning for at least 3 hours straight to get it to even resemble a tidy abode. As it stands, a tidy sty is all I could hope for tonight, with how lousy I'm feeling.
Let's not forget that tomorrow is my husband's birthday. I haven't even bought him a present yet. I've been too caught up with the thousand other things on my to-do list, and the million things racing through my mind at any given moment.
Okay, its now 10 minutes later, and all of the above has changed. They are now all, bar Jacob (who is now shouting hysterically in his high chair), being chased into their rooms by Sean, who apparently 'has had enough'.
I had better go intercede.
...perhaps if we are fighting, I might be able to delay the birthday present for a day or two.
Who am I kidding?!
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