209. Restful holidays

It is that time of the year again: summer holidays! These days this means the four of them darting in opposite directions and us left looking right, left, then right again. Being a teacher I am supposed to be the lucky one here. My husband, being the unlucky one, has to go to the office. I always picture the office like a haven of peace and quiet, computers and A/C's humming in the background, the smell of fresh coffee and the civilised conversations at break time, cleaning staff coming everyday to refill the soap bottles and pick up the wrappers. So unlike home. Apart from the coffee.

'Enjoy spending time with your kids.' He says as he leaves, ignoring the grumpy frown on my face.

Up there on the top floor, two of them are furiously packing huge rucksacks with some indescribable paraphernalia. I want to ask questions like why such a big rucksack and are you sure you can carry it? Or why do you need such an impressive first aid kit and should I be worried? But I know I won't get satisfactory answers so I stay away from the top floor. I can hear noises, things being dragged, the rattling of the coat hangers in the wardrobe, the fighting too.

'That's mine!'

'No, it's not! It's mine and you know it.'

'Liar! I had it last year.'

'Yes, but then you gave it to me! It's mine! Give it back NOW!'

Followed by some banging and some screaming. I decide we need baguettes (that's the good thing about living in France, you can always pop out for a baguette when the going gets tough). 

When I come back with my two baguettes the fighting is over and the bags are packed. Now they are in agreement about needing money to go and buy stuff to put in the baguettes I have just bought.

'The ham in the fridge is green. We need some pink one.'

Green? That serves me right for buying ham that doesn't come wrapped up in see-through plastic nor smothered in chemicals: apparently it turns green. It comes wrapped up in pretty pink and white checkered butcher's paper that, guess what, is not see-through but no-one bothers to open the packet and it is left alone to go green. Of course, I am responsible for this mishap (the father being in the office).

'Well, you just buy stuff and go away for almost a week ...'

'Next time I go away I will leave an empty fridge, see if you like it!' I say, starting to feel anger rising in me.

'Yeah! Pizzas delivered to the door everyday. No problem, mum!'

I am too tired to be angry. After all I am on holiday.

Now that the two of them are making sandwiches I relax a little. Departure has to be imminent. This is when Miss Party-Head comes in (I didn't even know she was out) and sits down at the kitchen table.

'Mum?'

Should I pop out for more baguettes? 

'Mum!' She sounds impatient.

'Listen. I am going to be in and out of the house a lot. ... Mum? ... Are you listening?'

She has only started on her plans for the week ahead that it goes all furry and blurry in my head. I get all the dates mixed up, and the dates too, and I really want to say it does not matter, I'm cool with it. But she insists and tells me of parties and days on the beach and ... She can tell I am not taking in all of this, that this is too much for me so she gets up, gets paper and writes it all down. She grabs an innocent fridge magnet and slams the paper on the fridge.

'Now you know!'

She looks so offended! All that just because I got mixed up between the day at the beach with Judy and Simon and the party with Simon and Sam! And was it the same Simon or two different ones? And then the lift to Alice's house? Is it with Tom who wants to be a cook or Tom who's failed medicine? Why can't I pay attention? I cannot tell her I don't care that much, that we have mobile phones now anyway as I sense that would not go down very well. Then she looks at me and says.

'OK? Bye now! I'm off.'

I want to ask where to but I remember the lecture and the bit of paper which in turn makes me freeze on the spot. I cannot possibly already need to look at the bit of paper to find out where she is going.  That would be a sure telltale sign of my not caring at all. The telltale sign of a bad mother. So I sit there, not looking at the fridge and waving her good bye.

'Have fun!'

I hope I don't sound over-enthusiastic. I wait for the front door to slam shut and only then do I get up to check her agenda. My son comes in.

'Where is she off to?'

'Hang on, let me see ... '