The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1112 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I puzzled some more about what Sam Rose had said about being careful with the Shekhinah–but without speaking to him again, I really didn’t know, and speculating is simply a waste of time.

The next day, Danny’s leg seemed okay as far as I could tell. He was running about as per usual and grumbled when I refused to let him play footie again. He kept saying it was unfair. Okay, so he’d hurt his leg falling off a bike–seems to be a recurrent theme in this family–rather than kicking a ball about, but, I didn’t know how strong his leg would be and decided to err on the side of caution. I made him stay home.

Of course, I had to take Billie shopping for her uniform, and that took three hours and loadsa dosh. Some of it strikes me as ridiculous–why does she need three pairs of gym knickers? 'Passion killers,' the girls I knew in school called them–mind you at that age, I’d have loved to have had to wear them. So do I feel deprived by not having had a girl-hood?–Sometimes. You can’t relive the past, all you can do is correct the mistakes for those coming afterwards. I was therefore determined for Trish, Billie, and in some ways, Julie from missing out on these formative years.

I mean, girls learn how to relate to other girls and boys from childhood–I had to learn quickly at the tender age of twenty, some do it even later–what chance a normal relationship then? I know, what is normal–we won’t go there again, it’s a convoluted argument.

“Do I get a milkshake tonight for being a good boy, Mummy?”

“Simon, grow up will you?”

“I will if I get a milkshake, later, hint hint.”

“It’s not supposed to be for your benefit, is it?”

“I thought as a banker, everything was for my benefit–did I get it wrong somewhere along the line?”

“No, I think that just about sums it up.”

“Hmm–I was being ironic, you know?”

“Gosh, were you–I’d never have guessed.”

“You can be so cutting at times.”

“Yeah, so?”

“What’s got into you?” He seemed a bit uptight today–not like Simon.

“Got into me–what about you?” I challenged back.

“I’m not the one casting nasturtiums,” he complained.

“Not much–woe is me–canni’ve a milkshake, Mummy? Don’t you think it’s bad enough actually having my tits sucked inside out by a two month old, to want to offer them to the world at large.”

“Don’t bother then.”

“Simon, don’t go all schoolgirl on me.”

“Schoolgirl?”

“Yes, all pouts and self pity.”

“Self pity?”

“Must you repeat everything I say?”

“Must I what?”

This was driving me nuts–and the most frightening part was I didn’t think he was doing it deliberately. He’d got stuck in that defensive mode which throws back most of what is being hurled at him.

“I have to go and do a stew for this evening.” I walked into the kitchen and of course the baby started up. Their timing is amazing, maximum effect with minimal effort. But she’d have to wait, I was busy.

“Can’t you hear this baby crying?” Simon said marching into the kitchen.

“Yes, my hearing is every bit as good as yours.”

“So do something about it.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy for a moment?” I was browning the meat for the stew, to seal in the juices.

“I thought this child had priority over everything else?”

“No, she’s a baby and important–but she has to get in the queue like everyone else.”

“Well, I was in the queue before her,” he said petulantly.

I couldn’t believe his attitude. I added the chopped onions to the meat and fried them together in the pan. For ten of us it requires quite a lot of meat and two onions, plus garlic and some pepper.

“Well, are you going to see to her?”

“There’s some milk in the fridge, it wouldn’t kill you to warm it and feed her,” I threw back at him.

“Why should I?”

“Because she’s a child of this household, and you’re nominally her foster father.”

“Tough,” he turned on his heel and stamped off.

“Oh boy–gimme strength.” I said to no one in particular, but felt this calmness inside me as if something inside me was damping down my desire to get angry or even hurt by his childishness. I called Julie, she was doing Trish’s hair in a French plait, so shouted back she was busy. Great.

I tried to imagine baby C watching her mobile and gurgling at it rather than screaming for my milk. Then I continued my preparations, adding the chopped carrots and tomatoes, then the mushrooms and setting it to simmer, I went to sort out the wain.

She was still screaming the odds, the first time I’d seen her as upset as this, then realised she had a bit of a cold about her, her nose seemed bunged and her breathing was less than comfortable. I bared my breast and she chewed hard on it–damn, that hurt. I pulled her off and she struggled to reattach. I ran a finger around her gums–she was definitely teething, so was the cold a teething one? Nobody else had one as far as I knew, so where would she catch one?

“What did you want me for?” asked Julie coming now it was too late.

“I wanted you to feed Catherine.”

“Oh, sorry I was doing Trish’s hair–waddya think?” I smiled, her hair was getting quite long and it made her look more than a couple of years older.

“I think it looks lovely. Where’s Jenny?”

“It’s her day off.”

“Oh of course it is. Is she back for dinner?”

“I dunno, do I?”

Teenagers can be so helpful.

“Can you check the stew, please?”

She went off to the kitchen and called back it was fine. I burped Catherine and then put her on the other breast, the first one was quite sore and I thought I could see tooth marks in my nipple–no wonder it bloody well hurt–little carnivore.

Tom came back from walking the dog and checked the potatoes for me, Julie had disappeared again–I learned later that she was doing Livvie’s hair, then Mima’s and finally the shorter tresses of Billie.

I eventually sorted out the little one, changed her and put her back down–then finished the stew–thickening it and dishing it up with an oven done jacket potato.

Everyone seemed to enjoy it bar Simon, who was still pouting and sulking. I tried to ignore it and with two of the girls helping me to clear up, left Tom to amuse him. A little later, Tom told me Simon thought I was neglecting him, and that the children were coming first every time. I felt like clocking him one, but what would that achieve?

I wasn’t looking forward to tonight–I felt like Snow White, going to bed with Grumpy.