Turns out I’m ruining my eldest daughter’s life, by refusing to sew her up a raw meat dress for Halloween.
"I don't know what your problem is, mum, it's not as if I'm even asking for steak here, and I can always return it afterwards.."
She (Bec, not Lady Gaga) is currently staging a protest sit-in up in her room with the microwave, a mini-fridge, and two supportive friends. I’d be tempted to negotiate were it not for the blissful peace we’re enjoying.
Besides, she needs me for a ride to their hockey match at three.
It’s been a busy weekend what with Sweet Sam discovering how to use his phone, an’ all. When he first started his life skills course at college last year, they urged us to buy one for him. He’s been carting it around fully charged, and with credits ever since – not that he ever switched it on, mind. Well, not until recently that is.
Talk about make up for lost time, there’s no stopping him now. The nice thing about Sam, is it doesn’t faze him if he doesn’t really know the folk he rings. Any friend of his sibs’ will do. Took me ages to figure out how he got their numbers (that’ll teach his sisters not to hide their phone-book). Well, he get’s bored of a Friday, since he only has a four day week at college. ‘Sides, the silly bint’s aren’t meant to have their phone’s switched on during lesson time, are they? Their subsequent detentions are hardly all his fault.
He’s also discovered the number of his beloved Manx Radio. It’s a sweet little station, taking music requests, and running lots of competitions, allowing folk to dial straight through, live, to the DJ on air.
On Friday they offered a free Domino’s Pizza delivery out to the first one to dial through with the name of a four-lettered animal beginning, with a “B”, and that has legs. Although it was very sporting of them to let him win with “Butterfly”, I have this terrible sinking feeling they may live to regret it..
Anyhoo’s, the reason I mention all of this, is because Sam has also taken to conversing with some of his fellow students over the phone, most of which are equally as dippy as he is. The conversation can run on for hours around the similar theme:-
“Hi, what are you doing?”
“Talking to you. What are you doing?”
“Using the phone.”
“Who you talking to?”
“You.”
“Really? Ha.. cool!”
"So, what are you up to?"
Seemed harmless enough until I answered the house phone early Saturday morning to A. During their last phone conversation, Sam had apparently invited him over for the day. In fairness, he does seem to have more wits about him than most of Sam’s peers, being able to navigate the bus system alone all the way over to Douglas, as he did. ‘Course, he didn’t actually have our address, and was calling, stranded, waiting for us to collect him outside the MacDonald’s drive-in. (Call me lazy, but as a rule I usually lie-in beyond 7.30am on a weekend.)
Thing about A is he is used to a lot more freedom than I usually allow Sam, and he couldn’t fully understand why I wouldn’t let them go off for a wander on their own into Town. So much so, he escaped with him anyway. Three freakin’ hours it took me to track them down. (Silly me, I should have realised I’d find them sitting with their bum's parked inside MacDonald’s.)
No sooner than I've safely dropped A back to his rightful address, I arrive home to find my youngest, Abby, asking:-
“Mum, is it okay if I have a small sleep-over in the shed, tonight?”
“How small?”
“Um, R, F and S? You did let Bec have her friends sleep over last night..!”
Acutely aware we collected her sister and friends home from a 16th birthday party the night before, she reckons she’s owed.
I’ve lost count of the amount of toasted bacon sarnies I’ve dished up to breakfast other people’s kid’s this weekend. And to think, I thought with Matt leaving for Uni, life around these parts were set to quieten down some.
It’s hardly set to get much better anytime soon, with the girls on a two week mid-term school break as of Monday (just as their dad conveniently flies off to London).
Is it really too late to consider putting them up for adoption?
I must urge all of you bright young, child-free peoples out here, remember, a child is for your entire, total, sapped-dry life, not just for the initial drunken fumble, and the nine months of vomiting that follows immediately on.
Amazingly, in fairness, three of my four were actually planned. In retrospect, I think at the time I was suffering from some hitherto undiagnosed, yet severe form of temporary insanity - t'was either that, or hubby'd secretly drugged me.
I mean, what sane woman ever elects to swap her life and fortune over to becoming Dobbie-The-House-Slave? Mother Nature is a cunning trickster, no sooner have you birthed but she burdens you with all this darned (virtually always unrequited) love .
Thank goodness the lucid moments are far and few between, otherwise I might truly get depressed.
Yup, I definitely feel a solitary, long weekend flight to the mainland coming on..
