Boobies

I was lying in bed feeling like the woman with everything when the doorbell rang. My beautiful new baby lay asleep in the crook of my arm, my brand new kitchen extension was downstairs; lovely pale grey tiles on the floor, sun blazing in on clean, new units, bunch of flowers in a habitat vase on the window sill. My other children were playing in the garden, their happy voices reaching me through the window which was open because it was a balmy, warm, sunny day. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying but it sounded sweet and innocent. Bliss. Anyone would wish they were me, but I am me! Yippee! And my husband was in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher. Just kidding. (Nobodies life is that perfect.)

My husband was answering the door. I heard women’s voices from outside saying something about “living on this road too.. sponsorship.. five mile walk.. for charity” and then I heard my husband saying “Sorry, I can’t talk at the moment, I’m just washing my feet.” Yes, that is exactly what he said. The front door closed and I knew I had two options. I could run into the front bedroom, open a window, see what direction the women had gone in and shout “He never normally does that! Usually he has showers or baths! We are clean people! Did you see the kitchen extension?” Or I could stay in bed and pretend it had never happened. And that’s what I did.

Unlike me, my husband doesn’t really care what people think. For example, he doesn’t care if they think he only washes himself in sections, feet on Saturdays, arms on Sundays and so on. (He really does have showers, but the way, just for the record. I have no idea what the hygiene situation was that day but washing only his feet is not an everyday occurrence).He doesn’t care if people like the extension or not, or even if anyone sees it. So, whenever he answers the door he doesn’t leave the sitting room door open to give whoever is outside a view into the expansive kitchen. He’s not a show off, (like me). When parents collect their kids from parties in our house, I bring them right into the kitchen at the back of the house, in a really “easy going” way. I am basically trying to say “look at my child friendly, happy, (tasteful in a Designer’s Guild/IKEA/vintage way) amazing life! Look at the cake I made myself! And the pizza. Aren’t you jealous?”  At least three quarters of the time I’m pretty sure they are thinking “Why didn’t you just go to Leisureplex? Look at the state of your skirting boards.”

I could hear the childrens voices in the garden, singing loudly. It sounded like they were figuring out who was “on” in a game of chasing. This time I could hear exactly what they were saying;

“My mother and your mother went to the movies!

My mother punched yours in the boobies!

What colour was the blood?

Red!

R!

E!

D!

You’re on!”

I wonder which of the other third class mothers would want to punch me in the boobies, should we ever have an outing to the Movies@Dundrum? Probably a few of them, now that I think of it.