347. Compass points

My heart was sinking. My energy levels were dropping dramatically. My husband thought I was being a little too self-centred and also over dramatising everything. Yet how would you cope with 4 kids in 4 different directions like points of a compas? And the kids like the needle of the compass pointing North kept wiggling about. And me thinking: will the compass really point North or when it's finished the wiggling will it point in an other slightly off direction? Would it ever stop wiggling? And the kids when I managed to get hold of them would be laughing.

'Remember we were in 4 different schools at one point? Well, now we are in four different countries. You get the choice for holiday destination!'

'Maybe we should have named you North, South, East and West then.' I say.

But they don't hear me, excited about the prospect of being far away from each other. How could I have brought up my kids that way. The bad mother feeling is rising like a wave threatening to engulf me again.

The thing is while that once they’re set on a direction before they set off they come home and drop their belongings home. The house is about to burst again.

'Come on, let's go walk the dog!'

I make my way through the lounge where Muddy Boots' stuff has just been dumped. Boxes of kitchen stuff, bags of clothes, dirty laundry (my washing machine must be the best in the world as they seem to use no other), crates of books, a skateboard, a ukulele, a sleeping bag and a tent.

'Come on. Let's go.' My husband is getting impatient.

Yes. Let's get out of here. Maybe when we come back everything will have been tidied away.

We get into the street we find our neighbours looking a little befuddled.

'Someone has stolen our signs.' They say.

'Just some no parking signs for the builders’ van.’

They look distressed and we sympathise about the rough element in town, the collapse of modern society and most importantly the cost of signs. We know that cost very well my husband and I but maybe the cost of renting this from the town hall has gone up.

‘Sorry for asking but what kind of work is it, it seems that the builders are taking out tons of rubble out!’

He seems relieved and the unforthcoming neighbour turns into a jovial man in a split second.

‘Want to come and have a look?’ I cannot say no for two reasons: a) I do not want the man to sink back into his depressed mood; b) I am a tiny-weeny bit curious.

I follow him - leaving my husband on the pavement with a frustrated dog - and step inside number 22. I manage to hold back a scream and am pleased about that. I’ve had painful experiences of work being done in houses I lived in - but nothing like that! The floor is no more. In its place a soil of rubble and dust. 

‘They’ve removed all the flooring, tiles, wood, … everything !’ His wife tells me. A grey cat wanders in as if nothing was unusual and this was a perfectly normal interior. They continue telling me about the doors being widened, the yard being downsized, the kitchen being resized … while I listen in awe.

‘Where are the boys?’ I ask, thinking they’d be at the grand-parents’ maybe.

‘They’re upstairs. We’re kind of camping right now … a temporary kitchen and dining area up there.’

I now think how pathetic am I to worry about a pile of crates and boxes in my lounge ! I join my husband on the dog walk as the neighbours head off to the laundrette round the corner.

‘Like students !’ His wife tells us, laughing. And I reset my compass.