Saturday, 27 October 2012

 

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Rantings of a Middle Aged Doormat

A sane person walking into my house today would have beat a hasty retreat. The soggy noodles squashed into the carpet, chippie packets strewn about and packs of children in every crevice and cavity would have been too much. They were for me. I have been trying to get to my computer all day, unsuccessfully, to write a short story.

Not any short story mind you. This one has to be witty and well-written, imaginative and creative with just the right amount of literary devices. A story to grab a reader’s interest from the beginning and leave them with something worthwhile to think about at the end. I have a deadline looming and have been trying for a month but for some reason the right words just keep alluding me. Perhaps, like my floor, they are buried under the paraphernalia of childhood activity; drowned out by the incessant Brrr! Brrr! of the phone ringing.

Its hard to conjure up foreign worlds and amazing plots when it keeps intruding. When I first moved back to my home town I resented the way it controlled my life. I often unplugged it when I wanted some peace but people complained so much I don’t do that any more. The tranquillity that moved here with me is long gone anyway. So there isn’t much point.

I did try to hold onto it at the beginning but with the busyness of resuming my old life it didn’t last long. In rare quiet moments I’d remember back to days spent sitting on the front porch of my tumbled down cottage in the country, watching the graceful dance of the windmills on the nearby hills, listening to the birds singing and enjoying the clean fresh air around me. It felt like, after all my years of searching I had finally found home. I was where I was meant to be. Fate, however, had other ideas and after two idyllic years I was called back to reality, once again, by a phone call. Something was up. My family needed me and so I moved back here. Sometimes I curse Thomas Edison.

Anyway, back to today’s phone calls. The first one came through at 6.30 am. Just after I’d pulled my weary body from the bed I share with the foxy I inherited from daughter No.1. I don’t like dogs anymore than I do children but nobody believes me. I guess, with three in the house it is hard to be convincing. They think I’m joking and laugh when I complain about their mess, fur and the doggie smell that assaults my senses everywhere I turn. I have strict rules about where they sleep and what they can do but the dogs listen to me about as much as children do. So I’ve given up. I’ve also given up on limiting the amount of children I look after. There is no point.

For some strange reason people think I’m good with them. That I like them even. Friend and foe drop then off with rapt abandon - and who can blame them. I rarely say no.

That first call was from a friend asking if I could watch her 5 year old for the day. She had the ’flu and he was already bored. I reasoned Bailey could play with my young son and that would free me up to write my story. Sounds good in theory but the reality, when he arrived, did not quite match the fantasy. Proof I do have an imagination after all though. Instead of catching that sliver while it was there and running with it I was conned into answering such bizarre questions as “If I had all the money in the world would the bank be big enough to hold it,’ and using Google to find intelligent answers.

Intellectually stimulated they disappeared while I was on the phone to harassed parent no.2. She had put her back out and Toby had woken with a bad cold and couldn’t go to kindy. Could I have him for the day? What the heck, I thought. He can play with the boys. Likely story. Toby preferred to squeeze the life out the ginger kitten daughter No.3 had rescued from a home worse than ours. So we made gingerbread together. Helped by Azi, the two year old we managed to get flour throughout the house and forgot to add the sugar. But at least the kitten was safe.

By the time we had decorated the biscuits with coloured icing, sprinkles and chocolate hail my story consisted of a line of nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnns the three year old had written on the blank page of my computer. Not quite the literary devices I had in mind but it was better than anything I’d been able to come up with all day. It was time to pick kids up from school so nothing much I could do about it now.

Pulling into the school I received a txt from a friend on his way to the hospital with another brain bleed. Could I pick up his two children and keep them until his wife finished work. How could I refuse? I couldn’t very well leave them at school in the rain and it was an emergency.

Did I forget to mention it was raining? Yes, by the bucketful, filling up the holes the dogs had dug in the front lawn, spilling out over the guttering I never get time to clean and dripping down the flue to come to a sizzling halt on the dilapidated Kent fire. Another thing I need to fix.

I’d just piled everyone out of the car, taken off coats and boots, fed the hordes and reloaded the dishwasher when the phone rang again. I reluctantly picked up the receiver. It had taken a while to find buried under a pile of children’s’ artwork on a kauri dresser I’d once imagined displaying an antique vase full of fresh flowers. More proof of a creative side but not the type stories are made from.

“Mum’s sick. Can you come get us?” It was ten year old Sarah. I have been providing respite care for her family since she was a baby and was often called up to look after them at a moments notice.

“All four of you?”

“Yes.” How on earth was I going to fit everyone into the van? Luckily my 20 year old daughter was just pulling into the driveway and I was able to con her into minding a few kids while I embarked on my rescue mission. She hates kids more than I do but people believe her and don’t even go there. Except her mother. I now had thirteen children running through the house like rats through the streets of medieval London; sheets being made into huts, baking smells wafting out from the kitchen, candle and crayon experiments at the table, toys scattered everywhere, the baby was crying the sound of the teenagers music was blaring down from the upstairs bedroom. It was mayhem and the next time the phone rang I could hardly hear it above the din.

This time it was the hospital wanting me to come in the next day. My test results  had come in and treatment was urgent. My first thought was one of delight. How welcome the peace and cleanliness of a hospital ward would be right now. Any other feelings that tried to emerge were quickly shelved and would have to stay there until the kids were in bed, the house cleaned up and my story written.

Fat chance! A few hours later, just as I had sat down was about to type my first word the jangle of the front gate heralded the arrival of another visitor - my eldest daughter calling in after an arduous day of her own. As we chattered and caught up with each other over our chamomile tea (grown myself back when life flowed at a simpler pace) the house settled down to the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof and the incessant drip of the fire place leak. Only now it was worse and the carpet was getting wet, too.

And that’s where I am now. Its late and I have barely stopped in 17 hours. Finally the house is quiet. I’ve turned off the phone and locked all the doors. As I slump my weary body down on the computer chair and bring up Microsoft Word I realise, if I count the nnnnnnnnnnnnnnns already on the computer I still have 1499 more words to write. I know somewhere deep inside me is a story trying to get out if only I know how to reach down and grab it. It won’t be tonight though. I don’t have the energy. I hardly have the strength to turn off the computer and drag myself to bed.

I only wish I’d remembered to turn the electric blanket on.

This was written about two weeks before I had an operation for a 3 kg ovarian cyst. A week later I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia. It is a reminder of how crazy my life had become in the months (years) leading up to my illness. When the consultant confirmed my leukaemia I did not want treatment and only did so from the urging of my family. My life was more than I could manage and I was ready to opt out big time.

 

Several times during my hospital stay I dreamt of a baby I had forgotten to feed and change. Sometimes it was hidden away in a cupboard, other times lost and neglected amongst the busyness of my day. That baby was me. I was so overwhelmed by the needs of those around me I had forgotten to nurture myself. I was so far gone I had forgotten I even had needs. I had convinced myself that I was living authentically.

 

I go back to this story often. It is my reality check. I never want things to get this crazy again. I no longer have the energy or desire to do what I once did. I say 'no' often now and people listen. Even the dogs. An insurance claim paid for a new fireplace and my kauri dresser displays ornaments and a family photo.

 

I'm not there yet though. I still have a way to go before I'm living a life that fits.

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