Monday morning I creep out of the house like a thief in the night. Terror grips me that my helper will arrive before I make my escape. I can’t bear to see her face as she witnesses the carnage of my home. What I do know is that by the time I arrive home long after the moon has risen, she will have removed the bodies of the dead, tended the wounded and restored order.
My mother once told me that trying to clean up after small boys is akin to trying to sweep the grains of sand off the beach. Saturdays start with me raging against this truth. By Sunday morning I surrender and by the following morning my house looks like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse threw a party and invited the Valkyries over. I can’t imagine what my helper must think. Actually, I can, and that is the reason why I sneak out of the house post haste.
After the weekend I savour the first hour or two of my quiet ordered office. It seems an oasis after the maelstrom of weekend flurry including karate trials, two birthday parties, small girl now aged 5’s birthday, in-laws visit and part two of the construction of the Wendy house. After all that I can handle pretty much any crisis you throw at me here, it doesn’t come close to what I have just survived.
I cannot quite believe that small girl is now aged 5. She is a remarkable child, full of fire and passion. It must be the Scot or the Irish in her. At her age I was a frightened little mouse who wouldn’t have dared to say boo to a goose.
Small girl aged 5, however does not have that problem, she will happy take on a stern faced maître d at an upmarket restaurant over the lack of the lollipop clearly displayed in the menu. Trying to explain that this is a design feature and not an offering was boiled down to being an outright lie. Said maître d flummoxed in the face of such vehemence went and bought her a lollipop.
Of course, when all that fury and righteous anger is directed at you, it is quite a different matter.