Janet Christie: Mum’s the word

With the children away and festival visitors due the time has come to clean their rooms. Shudder, boak. The very thought makes me reach for the bleach and bin bags so I’m bracing myself when the phone rings. It’s Middle Child.

“Hello. We’ve been kayaking.”

“With life-jackets?”

“Sigh. And tomorrow we’re going sky-diving.”

Oh god.

“You know you said you were going to tidy my room?”

“Yes. I’m about to do it now.”

“Well don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Em, you shouldn’t have to do that. It’s just not fair on you …”

Hmmm. I’m definitely going in there now. He passes the phone to Eldest.

“Thanks for that book. (I’d given him Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut). Do you think time travel is really possible?”

“I wish it was. Then I could travel forward to after I’ve tidied your rooms.”

“Oh! Please don’t bother. It’s my job. Really.”

“Ok.” As soon as this phone’s down I’m straight in.

Youngest Child grabs the phone: “I miss you Mummy Dearest. But there’s a horse here instead so it’s OK. If you want to tidy my room, do, because I think you don’t do it enough. But that make-up and jewellery you think might be yours, it isn’t. Love you, bye.”

Right. I’m going in. 
After a stiff drink to dull 
the pain.