Just Don’t Call Me Late For Dinner

In our loved up pre children days of being separated by travel G and I would spend hours on the phone. We would tell each other in long form of our undying love and then move onto the important things. What did you have for breakfast? What did you eat for lunch? What are you wearing?

When the first baby arrived the phone would be placed to her ear as she made the appropriate noises, phone calls would often be cut short with a baby’s cry and a need for an infant grease and oil change. G would arrive home with something cute for her, thoughtful for me.

When the second child arrived life was a little busier, it’s fair to say I was a little less understanding. G’s timing with travel news was never good. With one child on the boob while another screamed for attention G would gently mention he was going away.

“I have to go to Paris next week for a meeting.”

“You have to go to Paris? I’d say with a hint of sarcasm and baby vomit on my shoulder.

By the time the third child came along G would have to unlatch me from the leg of his pants as he climbed into the taxi. With a look of terror in my eyes I’d watch him pack, casting a scornful eye over his wet pack, passport holder and suitcase.

It was possibly around this time that the phone calls changed. My husband has a unique talent; he appears to have a sixth sense for the exact moment that I’m about to sit down and feed either myself or my children. Pull out a breast to feed a baby – the phone will ring. Start spooning spaghetti into the mouth of a two year old – the phone will ring. Utter the words “hurry up and eat your breakfast so we can get in the car for school” – there goes the phone again.

“You’ve never got time to talk, you never call me?” he’ll say looking hurt from his perfectly calm and peaceful surroundings.

“There’s a bit going on” you’ll answer while fishing the lego out of the toaster with a clarinet squawking in the background and round three of a wrestling match on the couch.

We began this morning with a bumpy start. An extra body lay in the middle of my bed. “WHY IS THE AIR-CONDITIONER ON?!” the youngest little traveller sat up in bed and screamed like a madman. “I’M FREEZING!”

“Good morning to you too” I reached for my phone: 5.55am.

“I TURNED IT OFF LAST NIGHT – SOMEONE KEEPS TURNING IT ON AND I’M FREEZING!”

‘Can you please relax? No-one should wake up with someone screaming in their bed. Go and wash your face and I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Would you like some eggs?”

And just like that, he turned into a normal human being. “Oh yes please!” he smiled a cheesy grin – because when you’re eight schizophrenic behaviour is all a part of the charm of the morning routine.

As bodies began to emerge in the hallway flickers of energy set off reactions. Someone farted as they walked past someone, it was believed to have been done on purpose.

“You’re so GROSS!”

“I can’t find my PE shorts” someone screamed from the top of the stairs.

“Someone has STOLEN my softball socks” said another voice.

And then the real trouble began.

Recorder practice.

“MAKE HIM STOP!” a chorus of voices yelled.

I poured the water into the saucepan, and while I waited for it to boil I filled the coffee machine, sang to myself and pretended I couldn’t hear them. I looked over towards the youngest traveller who had his face pushed into the glass table, he appeared to be making patterns by running his nose along the glass top.

“MAKE HIM STOP PLAYING THE RECORDER!”  a voice yelled again from the top of the stairs.

I added the eggs to the boiling water which obviously sent a direct message to G’s sixth sense.

The phone rang.

“Well hellooooooooo” said a ridiculously chirpy husband “I’m sitting here with Grandma and we wondered what everyone was up to? Is anyone up for a bit of FaceTime”.

I reminded myself I had an audience.

“Sure!” I began to look around the room for my iPad, remembering the last time I saw it was in the hands of a child so it was sure to be out of power, covered in fingerprints and hidden from view. “Let me just find an iPad”.

I passed the eggs to the little traveller as he filled his father in on what was going on at school. I put the next lot of eggs in the saucepan. In between buttering toast and fishing for clean cutlery from the dishwasher I called the next child down for breakfast. The next set of eggs were hand delivered as the second child spoke to Grandma. The third lot of eggs were just about to come out as the third traveller appeared. Two more pieces of toast were buttered, plates retrieved. Lunch boxes were sorted. The fourth lot of eggs went in as the eldest traveller graced us with her presence. With her hair in a top knot, a layer of mascara and latest skinny jeans I envied the time she’d had to get ready. She draped herself across the couch as she spoke to her father. An enormous sense of relief came as I passed the final round of eggs to her as she chatted, I could see coffee in my future. I scanned the room; each child happily fed, dressed and organised for school.

“You should probably go, what’s the time?” G said to the eldest child while Grandma smiled in the background.

With an eyebrow raised and more than a hint of judgement she looked in my direction “I think we’ll be awhile yet – Mum’s still in her pyjamas!”

I stopped dead in my pyjama wearing tracks. What?! What did she think I’d been doing? I took a deep breath and made my way to the coffee machine.

“Just tell your Mum to call when she has a minute.”

I didn’t need to – he called again at lunch.

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Comments

  1. You’re a good Mum, short order cooking on a weekday morning with your G out of the country! I’m glad he’s made it here in one piece and I do hope all is well on his end of the facetime experience. I’m always the last out of my pyjamas too!

  2. Bronwyn Joy says

    Eggs for breakfast? You exceed me. No-cook breakfasts all the way. Those middle Europeans knew what they were doing with the ham, cheese, rye, muesli and yoghurt, I tell you.

  3. I have the same, but in reverse. I always call them at a bad time. I usually try to guilt them into the fact that I am calling from 8,000 miles away!

  4. Hahahahaha, oh how I can relate! My husband travels a lot for work and my house is constant bedlam. Main difference is that he often doesn’t think to call because he’s just so “busy” (guffaw, assuming he has the time to line up for his full English breakfast and watch three different news programs on the hotel TV). You show a great deal more restraint than I do. 🙂

  5. One word – Cereal.

    Loved it but I have to fly. Talk soon.x

  6. valentinavk says

    aahhahah.I think he calls all the time when you are about to feed them or yourself because you drive the car. In houston Ill have to drive too, so far I was always moving around by bus – tram – taxi – train – plane. And my husband has a perfect timing in calling ALWAYS when im about to lift the stroller with child n.2 to get on of the bus while also having 5 grocery bags hanging from the handles of the stroller itself and child n.1 strapped on my back or keeping her by hand and keeping her scooter’s handle clutched to my armpit, or when im on the ladder to enter the plane with 3 handluggages hanging on me, one child that fell asleep just at the boarding gate strapped on my back, the other child keeping one of my hands and the 3 passports in my other one 😀

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