Washing Crisis

Last week, the tumble dryer broke down. You might think that is no big deal, but then suddenly this week, the washing machine decided to join it too. Given I spend much of my day bent double loading and unloading piles of laundry, these two events threw the household into an instant state of emergency.

Discovering the washing machine had broken caused a great deal of excitement amongst the children of course. They squealed with excitement as I opened the utility room door to discover water pouring from everywhere. I could barely mop fast enough before yet more soapy suds gurgled out. The Toddler pulled on his wellies and came bounding in for an at-home puddle splashing game. My five-year-old son, who always likes to take the role of master of the house, when his daddy is at work, grabbed the phone saying, “I’m calling 999.” Meanwhile, my six-year-old daughter began whimpering, deeply concerned that her favourite nightie would spend the rest of its life stuck in the washing machine. With ten minutes left before school started, I abandoned the mop and shrieked at everyone to, “Get in the car.”

When I returned home, I had visions of having to wade through water. Thankfully, the cycle had finished but both the border terrorist and labrador puppy had also enjoyed a jolly good splash in the utility room, only to then scamper round the house after each other spraying ‘wet dog’ all over the walls. It is at times like this when I wonder whether the neighbours tire of hearing the deranged mother bellowing, “GET OUT,” on a daily basis.

The washing machine lay idle for a whole weekend, thanks to its decision to very inconveniently flood on a Friday morning when no tradesmen were available until after the weekend. On Monday, I almost threw myself into the arms of the lovely man who arrived to fix the dreaded machine. At this stage, he could barely get into the utility room without being drowned by mounds of school uniform from the previous week. I left him in peace to address what I believed to be a fatal flaw to the machine. Shortly afterwards, he appeared in the kitchen ready to leave. I remarked how quickly he had managed to fix the problem, very impressed by his professionalism. It was then that he handed me a washing up bowl. I peered inside to discover an assortment of hair clips and a pile of soapy gold pirate coins. He looked at me, smiled and said, “I think you’ll find it’s best to check the pockets before you put clothes in the machine Madam.”

Bye Bye Toddler

The Toddler has left home. Well, that is what it feels like to me. He has started his first few mornings at our village pre-school and has officially entered into the world of planting, painting and play dough.

I had spent the last few days of the holidays preparing him and myself for his departure. He was fairly oblivious about where he was going and simply assumed he was to put on a school uniform, grab a pack lunch and join his siblings at their primary school. He was a little bemused as to why he was not given a book bag like the others but merrily climbed into the car chanting, “My going to school.”

My heart began thumping as we approached the gates. He ran ahead excitedly with his little knap sack attached to his back, containing his essential muslin square, known as ‘Muzzy’. Did he realise that his Mummy was about to ‘hot foot’ it to the car in a few moments? He merrily hung his coat up and launched himself into an assortment of tractors laid out on a nearby table. I gave his small cradle-capped head a kiss goodbye and left, not daring to turn round for fear I might dissolve in tears. As I walked towards the car, I had a sudden urge to sprint back to the school, scoop up my baby and take him home forever. Having longed for the day that I had a few hours to myself, I now felt like a spare part, with no small hand to hold and no car seat to belt up.

Back home, I tried to busy myself around the house. The phone rang and I took a flying leap to answer it with a breathless, “Yes – is he alright?” A cheery salesman asks me when I last replaced my windows. “I can’t talk now. I need to keep the line clear.” I said. For the next couple of hours I aimlessly wandered round the house, periodically glancing at the clock and wondering whether I should drive past in the hope I might catch a glimpse of his little auburn head in the playground. Instead, I drained three cups of coffee and ploughed my way through a packet of digestives.

I excitedly arrived at the pre-school 15 minutes early. As the clock struck midday, I had to stop myself from breaking into an Olympic sprint to reach the door. There he sat patiently waiting in his little coat, clutching his bag. He came out smiling, eager to tell me about the biscuit and apple he ate for snack. I wanted to cradle him in my arms but the few hours of pre-school seem to have matured him already. He pulled away from me, took a flying leap into the nearest puddle and said, “My didn’t miss you Mummy.”

The Birthday present

“What do you want for your birthday?” asked my husband. For a moment I thought about telling him what I really wanted. How I would long for a day off cooking, cleaning, washing, bathing children and being asked questions. I would love a day when I did not have to think about anything and could lie in a hot, oily bath reading a magazine in peace. However, I then reminded myself that this would utterly disappoint the children as it couldn’t be wrapped up and did not involve candle blowing and rounds of ‘Happy Birthday’. I opted for my second best present – a coffee machine, so I could enjoy cappuccinos at home.

A week before my birthday, my husband asked if I had looked into the coffee machine and done any research on which one I liked. This was a sure sign that he had not. I ‘googled’ for a while and spoke to a very helpful man in John Lewis customer service who talked me through his own personal cappuccino machine and the amount of frothy milk it produced. However, it soon became obvious that I was going to have to drive to a shop to take a look at one, so a dreaded trip to Southampton beckoned. My husband had just had two weeks off so the closest he was going to get to a cappucino machine was when he grabbed one from the nearest Starbucks during his lunch hour. There was no other option than to hit the china and glass department, with three small children in tow.

We had barely entered the store before the Toddler began grizzling and cries of “I’m hungry” began ringing out. In fact, the thought of a cappuccino to calm my nerves was very enticing, so off we headed to the canteen. With a dose of caffeine under my belt and the children given a quick sugar burst, we were better prepared. I glanced at a few machines on the shelf and was instantly baffled. Thankfully, a member of the Partnership’s staff came to my rescue, sensing my stress levels rising as the two boys began flicking on the switches of the rows of kettles beside us. She began to explain the differences between the machines and I felt like pressing a fast forward switch. “Which one would you get,” I asked. She pointed out a machine that looked nice and was not too pricey. “Great. I’ll take it.” I glance around to look for the children. I can hear them but not see them. I frantically dash around the department and find them by the fine Waterford crystal. They have launched into their familiar poking game, whereby the five-year-old prods the Toddler who rolls around on the floor laughing so much he has an accident. Virtually hyperventilating, I drag them out of the shop, under the gaze of other shoppers. Happy, happy birthday, I hiss to myself.

Travelling Home

After several phone calls to our tour operator, we had been squeezed on board the hovercraft and were heading back to ‘Blighty’ having cut our camping holiday short. I felt like whipping out the Union Jack flags and waving them vigorously from the deck as we pulled out of Calais. After ten days away in a caravan, regular downpours and far too many sausages on the barbecue, I’m excited to be heading back to Dorset.

A nice English voice welcomes us on board and tempts us all with a full English fry-up from the café. Thankfully, we had stopped in a French service station earlier that morning and gorged on our final ‘pain au raisins’ so the children were willing to give the fried egg and hash browns a miss. As we cruised along, I noticed it becoming a bit choppy. “Can I have my wrist bands?” asked our six-year-old daughter, convinced that their very presence on her small wrists would keep the sickness at bay. No sooner had I put them on, her face became pale and she began to whimper. I scooped her up and made a mad dash to the nearest loos, only to be greeted by a friendly member of staff filling up the sick bag dispensers. “The best thing to do is to lie flat on the floor,” said the nice lady. I glanced down at the floor, and politely disregarded her sea-fairing words of wisdom.

As the hovercraft began rocking more vigorously I too began to feel waves of sickness. Alarm bells rang with the prospect of the mother getting ill too and I mentally fought off the sickness. Meanwhile, my daughter was rapidly flagging. I suddenly remembered my naval father-in-law and sea doctor father’s tips on looking at the horizon, so I hauled my little girl on deck. We sat on a bench beside numerous other pale-faced mothers comforting their ill children, whilst clutching sick bags. There we sat in the driving rain for 2 hours, shivering with cold. My daughter held her head in the bag, whilst I fixed my eyes on the grey horizon thinking of the green ‘static’ hills of Dorset. The decks were littered with green-faced bodies on their way home from their fun-filled holidays.

Finally, we began slowing down and people let out weary cheers as we spotted the beaches of Studland. Faces around us regained their colour and suntans gradually reappeared. We stumbled back to our seats with a distinct smell of disinfectant in the air. My husband was sitting with our green-faced five-year-old on his knee, holding a couple of sick bags in his hand. The Toddler was curled up like a cat on the seat beside him. As the boat came to a standstill, we breathed a sigh of relief. We had made it. Our holiday was over and we were home.