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'Oh my ...'
I just read an article in De Volkskrant
about a family with six children. Tight
discipline. Everyone his or her own task, no
stress at all. Sure! I could tell the same
story. We have four plus a dog. Soon two, by the
way. Here too each has his chores. Pitiful? No
way! Working has to be learned, planning too.
But in my case something went wrong when the
planning genes got distributed. I know what
planning involves, but I am a failure at it.
Clumsy with the management aspects that a large
family calls for. 'Mom, where are my socks?' 'In
your brother’s drawer maybe? In the clean
laundry pile? No? Then in the dirty pile?' 'Mommmm!
I’ve got a party tomorrow! Is there a present in
the house? No?' 'Come on now, why don’t you get
on your bike and buy one yourself?’ I hear the
echo of my own mother – who could plan perfectly,
by the way – in my cry of utter despair.
That comes to 98 euros. Shit, where is my bank
card? Oh no, at the supermarket, in the DIY cash
register! Google the store, call the store:
“Yes, ma’am, we found your bank card all right.
Oh my ....'
'Can my son get a ride with you to the party?' 'Saturday?
To the party? Sure, what time? I’ll enter it
right away in my iPhone, that way I’ll get a
remind on Saturday.' 'Hey, you’re entering the
wrong name, Katja! My son’s name is Felix!' 'What?
Oh, how stupid, sh..!' The total-planning mother
walks away, shaking her head, leaving me behind
desperate.
SMS no. 15....my answer slips off to the wrong
person. Quick correction. Pressed the button too
quick, dear, my last SMS was meant for someone
else. Sorry.' The social media, no filter, crash
into my chaotic brain. We’ve got a public
connection, a backroom connection, we’ve got
telephone, SMS, a home and hotmail account.
Motherrrr! A drink, I need a drink. What time is
it? Four thirty. OK then! 'Hey, what are you
fixing for dinner? Mashed potatoes and kale,
with black pudding and scrapple? Awful. What do
you mean, awful? That’s old-fashioned good.' The
kids look disgusted at the roaster. 'Black
pudding and s-c-r-a-p-p-l-e? Made of blood? No,
mom, NO WAY!'
At the table I whisper to my hubby after a
quarter plate: 'A bit heavy on the stomach? Food
for farm workers, I’m sure.'
'School tuition? What, haven’t you paid it? I
haven’t either, I don’t even know the codes.
What do you mean, learn them? That’s your job,
isn’t it? Tonight we’re eating pumpkin soup.
Russian. Recipe in De Volkskrant. Wow, this is
scrumdumptious!' 'Mom, do you know why Russians
drink so much wodka? No?' 'Okay, okay, I admit,
it looks like a baby’s first breastfeeding shit.
Now why are you crying? Ah, you don’t like it?
Oh my …!'
'Disco? Here? Tonight? It’s Monday! But you
arrange everything yourselves! Well, okay then.
' 'Hello, madam, nice house'. 'Hello, ladies.
Oh, flowers and wine! How sweet. By the way, how
many children are coming? Twenty-five?! In the
garage? Okay, that should fit. You clear it and
then put everything back! Yes, you can light the
fire grill. Dry wood? Back in the yard. And make
sure no hockey sticks get burned up!'
'Oh hi, mister supervisor. Nice of you to come
by. Glass of wine? Coffee! Very wise! I could
use a strong espresso.'
I’m turning forty-one next week. When I
celebrate it? Sunday, I think. Are we doing
anything on Sunday? Sunday! Should be fun. I’ll
serve drinks. Just SMS everyone!'
'Ah, read this! They’ve got a puppy left over. A
small one. Caramel colour. That would be great.
Would make a great friend for Romeck. Shall we
do it? Yes! More than nine weeks already? Oh my
....'
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Written on 17 November 2010 |
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