Owl One

It’s official:  I am an owl one.* Bought my first 40+ face creams.  Eeekkkk!   I had been using the cheap “honestly, we’re not lying.  They’ll take years off ya” contender for the past year and I happened upon the pricier version on sale in the supermarket so I decided to treat myself.  Haven’t tried them yet and at this rate, I’ll need to go into the next decade bracket if I don’t use up my cheap as chips €3.99 ones.   And like a bus, you never get just one sign that you’re pushing on a bit, but three or even four of them might come along together.  Another indication that I am an owl one is the condition of our house.  Or rather, that I am beginning to care about the condition of our house.  Ours is not so bad it would send Aggie and Kim into raptures of disgust, but it is not so good that it would pass the white glove test either.  I have cobwebs to prove it.  And just when I was about to name the spiders, I go in search of a “good” feather duster.  And quite excited I am about it too. I hope Charlotte won’t be put out!  Actually it’s not just the feather duster that has triggered my descent into dotage.  I was in the luxurious position of having my hair done a week ago and answering the obligatory questions all hairdressers ask. The (very) young stylist, with her very own hairdressing award naturally assumed because I was having my hair done, I was going out that night.  I was incidentally, to a 40^th (see?  Owl one!) but I was still reminded of me at that age, oh so long ago, and I was tempted to tell her to write it all down and read it back in 15 years when she eventually has a family of her own and a few extra bills other than a bar tab under her belt.   I didn’t tell her I used to feel like that too.  That once upon a time children didn’t feature in my future either.  I didn’t tell her because I remember my own mother telling me those very things when I was a lot younger and oh so much wiser than she.  You know the way youth operates; she’s old therefore not of the times and doesn’t know what she’s talking about.  No young wan of that age wants an owl one telling her any differently.  I still don’t want that today. Nevertheless I managed to come out with the best mammy-ism yet.  There is a foodstuff or two out there that I refuse to buy.  They are simply badly disguised boxes of chocolate sugar masquerading as a breakfast cereal and they cost the best part of a fiver each. My boys will eat such a box in one breakfast sitting.  They do not come into the house.  Over my dead body.  Unless they are on sale.  I’m not a walkover.  I’m not!  But they crossed our threshold recently.  And yes, they were devoured over the space of a half an hour.  I just wasn’t able for them pleading for more so I said they could have them.  Actually what I said was: oh eat them, and once they’re gone they’re gone, and you won’t be able to have any more.  Yes, they looked confused too! On that very same morning the postman rocked up with a brown round shaped envelope.  As soon as I saw it my heart sank. There was going to be ructions.  I had forgotten all about (see?  Old age!) the novelty breakfast bowl I had sent away for by collecting the codes on the inside of said monster cereal boxes.  (They are not called Coco Pox in our house for nothing!)  By the power vested in me as a resourceful mother, I managed to find two more codes via a parenting website plus a friend whose child eats the same cereal and I had enough for one bowl.  Even as I typed the codes into the website I knew I was making a big mistake.  There was no way the Screecher Creatures were going to play nicely with the single bowl complete with inbuilt straw, all the better to suck up that vile looking brown milk.  Breakfast is going to be a very slow process indeed until that novelty wears off.  They sit around watching each other eating plain old Rice Krispies out of the bowl until it’s their turn.  I do too, if I’m to be honest but it’s more in a cheerleader fashion. “Come on.  Hurry up and finish.  Your brothers are waiting on that bowl.”   Then to top it all off, Mister Husband wanted to know when we are going on our holidays.  Bearing in mind we’ve only been talking about this for the last month and the kids, god love them, are inviting everyone and anyone they meet.  Because it’s a house we are going to, they think there’s room for the world and his wife.   I decided to test Mister Husband to see was he really listening to our child friendly countdown. Instead of telling them we were going in X number of days, or indeed sleeps, we told them there is a trip to the dentist first, the next day is group, school after that, then nana day, going to the office is next and then holidays.  Should have taken that approach with Mister Husband.  So I told him we were going in three weeks.  “You could at least be serious.” He sez.  “Ok, ok!!  Check in time is 4pm.”  “And am I expected to be there.” He sez.  “No.  Not at all.  Brax is coming with us.  I reckon it’s about time the kids met him.”  “He’s probably a short bastard in real life.” He sez.   Divorce talk that is!!   

*Refuse to say “Aul.”  An “aul” is a cobbler’s tool. Instead I like to think of myself as the wise owl as I head into middle age.  Oh wait, that’s not “aul” it’s awl that is the cobbler’s tool.  Shit!  Ah well.