by S.Z. Cairney
I
lie, Booby Slayer latched onto her favourite right boob hungrily drinking, little chubby hands kneading away, enjoying the silence before it heralds in the imminent whirlwind of another glorious day. I am determined to start this day in a positive way. I will radiate nothing but pure maternal goodness and patience. I will not shout or lose it. Nor will I beat a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of the loo and stone to death a few of the penguin figurines perched all cheery and smug-like in the toilet water basin. I’ve followed Bionic Babysitter’s huge best seller: Ten Step Plan To Grab Your Morning By Its Balls and that’s just what I plan to do...plus give ‘em a huge twist for old time’s sake. Booby Slayer, as if sensing that ‘that’ time is near, speeds up drinking, little arms now outstretched, embracing the possibilities a new dawn brings with it. It’s as if a door to another world opens. No, no more like a scene in the movies where time stands still only to have someone snap their fingers and everything speeds up. The cockerel alarm ‘cock a doodle do’s us...with three kids under five, sophistication moved out yonks ago from our place...it’s into another day and as my daughter throws herself on my bed, dangling something in my eyes, I hear the dull beat starting to throb. The pace erratic and stumbling for a minute or so but then gaining momentum. Here we go again. I’ve often wondered if I am the only one who can see the pitulus. Every house has one: a drummer. Scantily decked out in a loincloth, six pack to make a gal weak at the knees, akin to the drummer (a pitulus) found in the galley on a Ben Hur-type Roman ship of olde, beating the pace for the oarsmen, only these pitulus set the pace of our days. From the moment we open our eyes until we crash—exhausted—into our beds. And pitiless at times they can be, showing no mercy to the ship that finds itself awash in stormy waters. “By its balls...by its balls,” I chant under my breath, squeezing my fists up, demonstrating the exact manoevere that would adroitly do the job, only to see hubby looking over at me quizzically. “Everything OK?” he enquires. “OK...” I reply, clenching and unclenching fists as Bionic Babysitter is a firm believer that visualisation is an imperative component to realising your dreams. “By the balls...by the baaalllls...” I chant a bit more, exiting the bedroom with Booby Slayer and Pitiless beating away enthusiastically on his leather-bound drum following along. “Right everyone,” I chirp, doing a perfect rendition of a Disney Princess who’s just experienced the best multi-orgasm ever known to the sisterhood, “Clothes are all laid out, please get dressed.” OK, step one implemented, squirm Mr. Morning squirm as my grip tightens. Wee one
dressed. Others dressing...gliding into the kitchen, stick tongue out at the pitulus making racket in the corner. Cat fed. I can hear the drumbeat from next door as the Japanese mum calls out to her brood to hurry. Glancing at clock, doing well for time. Thank God for The Bionic Babysitter! All three wee piggies sat munching happily, bento boxes all lined up to go in bags...right, let’s just double check today’s agenda again. ‘Bum test’ I read. Bum test? Is it my writing? Yep...No, I’ve had my yearly womanly check up. Braved the Brazilian a few weeks back...What the hell? Then a bell starts to clang in my mind. A bell that slowly becomes louder and louder, clashing with Pitiless’ beat, which also seems to have suddenly increased in volume and pace. Racing to my ‘office drawer,’ I open it and a flurry of notices and announcements fly out like confetti. Today? I forgot, but there again if I worked for NASA, the FBI, and Interpol simultaneously I would have a lot less paperwork to contend with. Found it! OK, keep calm...I am the absolute personification of maternal benevolence and composure. “OK everyone! Finished breakfast? Good. Now Mummy just has to do a little test…
mothers
THE BEAT OF THE MORNING DRUM fresh clothes for your sister.” I instruct, bounding up the stairs. The beat is starting to reverberate throughout the house now. I feel its pull. I want nothing more than to block it out, to stick my fingers up defiantly, and embrace a life full of ambiguous schedules. Of brunches, of ‘sometime later today’ days. Where if you don’t get your bum bum test sample in on a certain date, before a certain time, the whole world won’t collapse. Over the drumming I can hear shouts from below to which I respond intermittently with ‘Put on your socks. Get dressed!’ The chirpy ‘I’ve just had multiple orgasms’ princess voice is sounding more and more like one of the Darleks from a 1972 Dr. Who episode, only Tom Baker looks a lot less dishevelled than I at this moment and the theme music would be very apt accompanying the ever increasing clamour of the drums. Back downstairs. Twins still half naked. I swear I feel the house lurch to one side and the crashing of waves. “Clothes...now!” I bark out more monosyllabic Darlek commands. But Mummy, Mummy,” they whine back as I grab the giggling wee one as she races by, poo poo now smeared all over her backside. Suspicious odours drift lazily from
Well...basically Mummy is going to stick a piece of “ sticky tape on your bum bum. No, your bum bum isn’t broken, darling...” no, it’s not going to hurt, lovey. Take off your shorts and underwear, both of you. Well...basically Mummy is going to stick a piece of sticky tape on your bum bum. No your bum bum isn’t broken, darling. It’s to test if any worms are near your bum bum...” Shouts of: ‘I don’t want that’ from son and daughter crying. “Ohhhh...no, don’t worry, they are nice worms. Cute, fuzzy wuzzy little thingies but we need to check. OK, ladies first.” Glancing at the clock I nearly scream when I see that a whole twenty minutes have sneaked by. Pitiless is beating heartily away on his drum as I squat in front of the twins, bent over, bottoms in air as I try to position a piece of tape over a certain area. Not actually how I envisaged Motherhood... Screaming erupts from the living room, I race in, and my heart is rudely dislodged from my mouth by a wet, soggy missile slamming full force into my face. Shrieking with glee my youngest, now totally butt naked, races over victorious and crying: “Bum bum, bum bum!” Good God...how much does this nappy weigh? Oh God...where are your clothes? Just before my eyes go into cardiac arrest, my son shouts out: “In the sink, Mummy!” From the doorway, I watch, helpless, as a wee t-shirt slowly sinks below the murky depths, one arm of Pooh making a final grasp at air before a school of rice crispies silences it forever. “Right, get your clothes back on. I’m going upstairs to get some
the kitchen. I daren’t look now. I sense a craggy cliff nearby. I now feel every beat through my bones...it is becoming deafening with every movement of the second hand on the clock. Time...you Judas! “Do you want to go to kindy today?” I ask through a jaw that is starting to feel slightly clenched. Loud “Yes” followed by me: “OK then. Get dressed please!” Loading the cleaned up baby into the pram, I triumphantly swing open the front door and push off outside. We made it. We’re going to make it, maybe a bit late but...we are getting out the door as my boy limps past. I shout over the background rhythm: “Have you hurt yourself, Lovey?” Only then to remember the bum bum tests. Oh God! Where the hell did I put them now! Brake on pram, race back inside. “Do you kids know where the bum bum tests are? I put them down somewhere!” I then notice that my daughter is walking rather funny too. “Are you OK, Sweetyheart? What have you two done to yourselves?” I ask all concerned, temporarily forgetting the crisis at hand. “Well, Mummy,” she answers quietly, so quietly I can hardly hear over all the drumming din.” The bum bum tests are still on our bum bums...” The drumming becomes so loud that I feel the need to cover my ears but I can’t...as the house lurches to one side, I catch my balance by gripping the settee. The smell of salt assaults my nostrils and waves crash mightily BAB against the walls... Being A Broad June 2009
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