Just About Normal

Truce has broken out.

I manage to snag oldest son at the top of the stairs whilst he pops
into the house for a shower.

He answers me in monosyllables while I negotiate the bumpy road of
telling him how I feel. I wonder how it is I am able to articulate my
feelings easily to the close adults in my life and feel like I am
choking up stones when I try and talk like this to my own child.

He eyes me warily as if I am an alien as I stutter through explaining
that I have been used to being central to his life and now feel like he
is spinning off and being his own centre. It sticks in my throat to
tell him that this is only right and how it should be when really I
still want to be his mummy.

I tell him I love him even though I don't like him and also that I know
he doesn't like me much sometimes. He smiles.

I admit I was angry and unfair to him during our hellish row and
unjustly repossessed his mobile phone. I tell him he can have it back
and he looks happy.

I ask him to tell me what he talked to his dad about. I regret calling
his father in the wake of the argument and bleating emotionally down
the phone at him. My ex husband doesn't do emotion terribly well. I
hate that I can't talk to him about the kids without starting to
snivel. Now I fear I have armed the ex with lots of ammunition about
how I can't cope and feel I have made lots of mistakes. I think this
will surface next time we have a discussion about anything.

"Dad read the paper," oldest says matter of factly. I am overcome by
defeat as ever when I hear their father's parenting strategies.

Oldest skips off, mobile phone in pocket, to see his girlfriend. When I
go downstairs the kitchen, mysteriously, shows signs of having been
tidied up. The tops have definitely had a wipe with a greasy
dishcloth.

Some time later oldest texts me. "Hi mum" it says, "is there anything I
can do to earn some money. I will do anything you want for a fiver."
the text signs off with love and a single x.

I ponder the 11 million tasks that need doing in this house. It's a
matter of prioritising. The garden is well maintained these days by
boys eager to get pocket money, everywhere is fairly tidy for a change.
Then I hit on something. The window frames are aged as driftwood. For
at least three years I have been meaning to woodstain them. I text back
the good news.

A contingent of teenagers arrives within the half hour and requests
sandpaper. A hunt is mounted for the can of woodstain which I feel sure
I bought in 1999. The hunt is fruitless so I have to climb into the van
and go to the DIY store. Outside numerous teenagers are lolling about
watching oldest and his girlfriend sanding the window frame.

At the DIY store I grasp hold of my favourite assistant. The nice older
man who sold me the pink paint for the front door. "You have to advise
me," I whisper urgently, steering him up the outdoor paint aisle. He
certainly knows his woodstain, I give him that. Though he tuts about
brushes. As I leave he asks me if I managed to shock the neighbours
with my front door paint. It makes me grin.

Back at the house all the younger children of the neighbourhood are
standing about dripping wet. There are about a dozen of them, all
neighbours and they seem to spend all their time in some sort of water.
My youngest appears teeth chattering at least three times a day
demanding chocolate and dry clothes.

There is a whisper on the street that the more elderly neighbours have
put in a complaint to the council about the mobile creche that exists
outside. It is alleged that the young ones do damage with their ball
games. This could be true but as I spend all my time irresponsibly
inside trying to pretend I don't have any children I couldn't really
say.

I thrill the younger ones by loudly announcing that the council can
take me on if they dare.

Later the house smells of woodstain. Two different competing lots of
music are bumping out. Someone somewhere is playing the opening bars of
a chili peppers song over and over again on a guitar. Middle son's
mates are all guffawing moronically in front of a playstation
game.

The boy next door tells me cheerfully that his mum says we can borrow
her long ladder to reach the upper windows. This is how eager my
neighbours are about me improving my house.

I remember the peace of the war zone a little wistfully. But I am glad
things are back to normal. I think.