Babysitter Blues

When our kids were very small, H and I hardly ever went out in the evenings. There were good reasons for this – mostly to do with chronic fatigue, but also because going out seemed to require mammoth organisational effort. Quite frankly, there was nothing I wanted to do enough, to make it worth the hassle. Instead it was considered a romantic Saturday night if I managed to stay awake for at least half an hour after finishing the Chinese takeaway.

Like many families, we live a long way away from our relatives, and we were also unduly fretful about leaving our small children with someone they didn’t know. As a result, we either went out separately, or if the occasion demanded that we had to attend together, we would get a grandparent to come over and stay for a few days. Facing my mother-in-law at 1am with a skinful is almost as bad as facing her at 8am with the hangover from hell. Maybe not.

H used to say that it was “better a strange relative than a relative stranger” when it came to babysitting, but I think that was before he realised quite how strange some of my family were. We eventually graduated onto a very competent babysitter, who was a trained nanny, and coped with the kids better than I did.

The reason I am remembering all this is because I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time today trying to find a babysitter for this weekend. Whereas in the past, all candidates had to be checked by Interpol, my requirements have slackened alarmingly in a very short space of time. So, the qualified thirty-something nanny can’t make it? How about her twenty-something younger sister who helps out with the brownie pack? No, well what about her 18 year old friend, who likes kids, and only smokes the occasional joint? Busy, OK, what about her 15 year old smackhead brother, who is awaiting his court appearance for arson? He’s free! Great, send him round! The kids have been waiting for someone to play with the Chemistry Set!

I can’t seem to kick my Chablis habit at the moment. I’m drinking some Marks and Spencer Chablis, but I’ve no idea how much it costs, since the bottle was a gift from a friend. I’m not sure I like it quite as much as the Tesco Finest Chablis, but that’s not going to stop me putting a few glasses of it down my neck.

I still don’t have a babysitter for Saturday, so instead of going to the glamorous grown-up dinner party, it looks like we’ll be back to the days of the living room sofa and the Chinese takeaway. At least I can guarantee that I’ll be drinking a wine I like.

When I Grow Up

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” There were many times in my life when that was a burning question. I frequently fantasised about that longed-for day when I could emerge from the grey torpor of school and the parental chrysalis, and spread my wings into the technicolour freedom promised by the world of work.

However, at no point in my varied working life have I ever been an air hostess, hairdresser, doctor (that one was to please my Mum), actress, ballerina, or any of the myriad exciting careers that were my childhood ambitions. Indeed the list of tedious jobs that actually have filled my adult life would have made my childhood self either laugh, or refuse to go on, due to the obvious dullness of it all.

I have always envied people who have had the certainty of knowing exactly what it is they want to do with their lives from a very young age, and then actually doing it. It seems to show an admirable sense of purpose. I wonder how many teachers, firemen and nurses are fulfilling their childhood dreams? Probably a lot more than the accountants and lawyers, although I daresay the latter are more likely to fulfil their childhood dreams of owning a Ferrari.

One of my kids wants to drive their own ice cream van, and I can see why that would appeal. Another wants to be a taxi driver, but that’s probably because he thinks it’s what I already do, and he rather likes the idea of a family business. It seems that no-one wants to be a policeman any more (too dangerous), or soldier (likewise, unless you want a book deal), or cowboy (condemned for harassing the indigenous population). The power of television in our lives has meant that the ‘glamorous’ jobs from a child’s point of view are presenting programmes, playing football, or singing.

Actually, I ought to confess that the one childhood ambition I have never been able to shake off is to be a singer, even though, like most people, I have absolutely no talent for it.

I am humming now, as I sip this glass of crisp Tesco Finest Chablis from the stockpile (now at £5.49 from £7.99 until 15/05 – hurry Dulwich Mum!). No doubt, when I open the fridge door for a refill, there will be enough of a spotlight to justify me bursting fully into song.

Acts Of Civil Disobedience

Right, they’ve finally all gone to bed, and I’m sitting here with a glass of Tesco’s Finest Chablis. I bought an embarrassing amount when it was on offer at a fiver a bottle before Christmas. The only other items I had in my trolley were a low calorie sandwich and a clutch of children’s birthday cards. I must have looked like the dipsomaniac version of the mad old woman with a trolley full of tins of cat food. I’ll be cutting my own hair next.
Anyway, this wine is crisp, green, and not too oaky, and the condensation is forming nicely on the outside of the glass. I should have time for at least one fortifying glass before my lovely husband returns from the coal face, and I have to cook the dinner. Actually ‘cook’ is too elaborate a word for what I usually do. ‘Assemble ingredients on a plate’ would be a more honest description. I suppose serving up a bit of microwaved fish and a bag of lettuce keeps me off the radar of the healthy food police, but only just.
I’m not really hungry, since I have already wolfed the equivalent of a three course meal in instalments, while preparing the children’s dinner, coercing them into eating it, and clearing away the resultant mess. I’ve also done the packed lunches (when did I start nibbling crusts for fun?) so the prospect of a third round of food preparation doesn’t exactly fill me with joy.
I think a second glass of this Chablis will go down rather well. It will make me feel subversive enough to slip a couple of Jammie Dodgers into the lunchboxes. I know that some parents view them as polonium-210 for kids, but its convenient sometimes to be able to blame a child’s obnoxious behaviour on sugar or food colourings. At least it gets you off the hook as a parent.