The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1165 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The next day, Stella was going out with Gareth, he apparently had the day off, so I was busy tending two babies. Jenny had the day off too, so I seemed to spend much of the day dealing with dirty nappies or shoving food in the other end.

Stella waited until I got back from the school run before dumping Puddin’ in my lap, and of course my niece was teething and as grumpy as I’ve ever seen her. If I didn’t know better, I could have thought Stella was abandoning her to my tender mercies–and those were fraying by the time I had to get two babies ready to collect my motley crew from school.

I was hoping Julie would be home on time from college–then she left a message on my voice mail to say she was going to see a friend for tea and would be home later. My heart sank when I got that message. My mission now was to stay sane while looking after two babies, one five, two six and a ten year old plus Danny who’s twelve.

He was actually the saviour of the late afternoon, he and Billie took Puddin’ out in her pram–or should I say he offered, as he could see I was up to my eyeballs in babies, and the others decided to go with him. They were out for about an hour, it was beginning to get dark when they came home, and I’d managed to feed and change my wee yin, express some milk for a later feed and drink a cuppa.

When they trooped back in, I asked him what he fancied for dinner, hoping he’d see it as a treat.

“Dunno, what we got?” he replied in typical helpful soul style.

“What would you like?”

“I dunno, do I?”

“What did you have for lunch?” I asked him, he buys his own lunch from the school cafeteria.

“Macaroni cheese an’ chips.”

Not exactly an enthralling combination nor the healthiest option I could imagine. I checked the fridge, then the freezer. “I have some faggots here, what about those?”

“Yeah, they’ll be okay–can we have chips with them–oh an’ mushy peas?” This proved to be a popular choice so I loaded the meat balls in gravy into the oven and while they were cooking, sent Danny down the road to get a whole pile of chips from our local chippy.

Simon came home and sniffed the aroma in the kitchen, “Mmm, smells good, what is it?”

“I’m doing faggots, peas and chips for the kids, why?”

“God, I haven’t had those for ages–sounds good to me.”

Of course, I didn’t have enough for him, I was going to do Tom and him a curry, which was one I had in the freezer and was defrosting. I asked if anyone else wanted curry instead and Simon said he’d have some of that as well. No wonder he’s putting on weight.

In the end, I managed to quickly do myself some scrambled eggs on toast while the others ate all the faggots, the chips and the curry and rice. When they asked what was for sweet, I dumped the fruit bowl on the table and huffed off to make some tea.

“Why did you have eggs?” Simon eventually asked me.

“Because you lot ate everything else.”

“You should have said, I’d have made do with the curry.” He knew I didn’t eat it.

“You said you wanted the faggots.”

“You didn’t say I was eating your share.”

“True–never mind, my eggs were okay.” I made the tea and poured a few cups for myself, Simon and the older children.

Puddin’ woke and screamed the place down, and she didn’t want to eat or drink, just scream. I decided she had colic, and managed to persuade her to take some medicine. Of course the noise set off tiny wee, and Simon tutted when I asked him to sort her out. I told him there was a bottle in the fridge, but he’d have to warm it first. There were more tuts.

“Where’s Julie, shouldn’t she be helping you with this,” he pointed at the squealing baby.

“Why can’t you? You’re her foster father.”

“In theory,” he muttered barely audibly. “Meems,” he shouted, “Give me a hand here.” She came rushing out and practically took over–she’s five years old and knows more about babies than Simon ever will. She’ll also do almost anything for her daddy.

While I nursed Puddin’ until she calmed down, I watched Mima set up the bottle warmer and shove the bottle in it, then she lifted the baby out of her carrycot and handed her to Simon, then she laid up the changing mat and all the bits needed to clean up a baby’s bum; Simon stood holding the baby and looking very uncomfortable. He knows what to do–I’ve shown him loads of times. The difference is, Mima enjoys doing it and he doesn’t. He did once throw up while I was changing a rather smelly nappy, so possibly the memory stays with him.

Neither Trish nor Billie came to see if they could help, they were playing chess, and Danny and Livvie were watching, waiting to play the winner–we all know who that’d be.

Eventually Puddin’ went off to sleep again and I put her down–I felt quite tired. I went to see how Meems and Si were doing. Meems was sat on Si’s lap with the baby reclining on hers, with Simon helping to hold everyone together. They seemed to have things under control so I left them to it.

I looked in on the chess competition and our own Trish Spasky was slaughtering Danny, who should have known better than try his luck. I slipped out again and went to sit in the lounge, picked up the Guardian and was asleep two minutes later. I awoke when a general panic arose because they couldn’t find me. I suppose I’ve brought it upon myself that nothing happens unless I initiate it, or clean up afterwards.

When I went back into the dining room, Trish was playing Tom and he was hard pressed to hold her off. I let them finish before I announced the curfew–Tom won, but only just. Simon was sniggering.

“Why don’t you play her instead of laughing at Daddy?” I asked.

“I did, the little bugger beat me.”

I couldn’t resist a smile which turned into a chuckle.

“If it’s so funny, why don’t you play her?”

“I’m no chess player.”

“C’mon, Mummy, play me,” challenged Trish.

“No it’s too late.”

“C’mon, Mummy, play her,” chorused the others. I should have declined but I caved in to stop the noise waking the babies.

For my sins, I drew white and started. I only have one gambit, fool’s mate we used to call it, where you attack with your knight and smash down with your queen. I felt awful when it seemed Trish hadn’t seen it before because I’d beaten her in five minutes.

“C’mon, Mummy, play me again–puuulllleeeaaasse,” she begged.

“No, I agreed to play once–off to bed with you lot–NOW.”

“Rotten rabbit,” she muttered as she stumped up the stairs.