241. The times they are a-changing

The house is bursting at the seams, filled up to the brim with people. The staircase is creaking like never before. All these huge people stomping on the tiny landing and sock-skating down the polished wooden steps holding the banister tight only to pirouette better onto the rug below.

But who are these big people? Where do they come from and why are they behaving so strangely? It was just as well that I had spent the last two weekends redecorating the first floor wall and covering it up with dozens of framed photographs.

‘Sixteen … seventeen … eighteen! EIGHTEEN! Baby is on 18 of these pictures while I only appear in 12. We can clearly see who the favourite is!’ 

Someone is on the landing, taking the time to admire my wall of sweet memories.

‘Stop fretting! I’m still working on it. I am not finished.’

I do the teenage thing and raise my eyes tI the ceiling wondering if I should take this kind of comment seriously or not.

‘Am going to put one huge poster-size print of mum and dad right there in the center.’

No reply. I must have made a very valid point.

Downstairs the raclette machine is on non-stop and the pressure cooker is forever steaming potatoes. This is not a family kitchen but some kind of baked potatoes stand. At least their culinary tastes have not gone weird. 

Unlike other things. 

Miss Organiser, for example, is now totally disorganised and does not even attempt to get the rest of us organised. This, just like the eating habits, is quite a relief.

And Miss Math-Head (I suspect she is the one keeping count on how many times people feature on the photo wall) is not locked up in her room doing school-work anymore - and I am not sure whether this is a relief or not. She is now wearing Wellington boots and scrambling up hillsides, scrutinising bits of rock with a tiny hammer and making colourful notes about them. 

And Baby keeps yelling at us that she is not a Baby anymore! And she says weird things like she needs more connection and more time and even more privacy to talk to her many friends. She even asked me to bring back heat protector from the supermarket. I thought she was on some kind of DIY project with her dad but then she said the weirdest thing of all.

‘It’s to protect my hair when I use the straighteners.’

I thought she was joking and so came home with the stuff and gave it to Miss Hectic-Life (formerly known as Miss Organiser). 

‘You’re could buy your own beauty products now that you earn a living, and if I really must be getting this for you then please do not pretend it is for your little sister.’

Which of course was a really really bad thing to say as it generated a massive family argument. I felt like a really bad mum (which I hadn’t felt for a while yet there was no pride to be had in there as they’d been away) and thought that with the Christmas seasonal spirit and all that and so I waved the white flag and immediately retrieved the box of chocolate I was keeping hidden for Christmas day. That did the trick. Only I would have to go back to the supermarket and restock. 

Later on in the evening our son announced that he was going to the cinema. And he offered to take Baby! I was going to say that it was too late and that the film was probably a bit violent but the look she gave me stopped me in my tracks. I needed to wave that white flag once more and got the chocolate box back out. Supermarket trip definitely on for me next day. Then Baby went upstairs to get ready. I wondered how long it would take her to straighten her hair and if our son was going to get impatient. But when he came down, dressed in a the pair of jeans and a jumper that had been left home when he left for boarding school in August, I almost burst out laughing but decided to go for diplomacy.

‘You might want to get change. They’ll rip in no time. And the jumper, well, it’s … ‘

‘Yes, a bit tight.’

Baby was keeping quiet, probably not wanting to jeopardise a trip to the cinema.

The jeans were too tight and too short and the jumper’s sleeves were going to rip at the seams. How could he grow so much away from your mama’s home-made food? I found that quite upsetting and wanted to pretend it never happened. But still he had to get changed as the risk of sitting down to the sound of ripping jeans was a possibility.

Baby waited patiently for him to change.

Our kids had changed a lot, this was obvious to us and I wondered if the fact that we had changed was as obvious to them too.