STUFT

Guest contributor – Allison Werner

Warning: If you haven’t had children yet but think you would like to sometime in the future – don’t read this disturbing account of a woman trying to write a simple email to her friend while parenting three children. This shocking communication is not for the faint hearted and if you suffer from epilepsy, heart condition or are currently pregnant you should not read on any further.

Allison’s letters are to become a regular feature of STUFT.  As the recipient of her emails since she moved to Adelaide with the hubby and three kids I have found a poetry in her work that is both therapeutic and reassuring. She makes me feel grateful that I stopped at two children and lucky to not be living in Adelaide.

Dear Sam,

As I sit here and write this, shit is getting undone.  My clean house, tidy bedrooms, no stuff on the bench and vacuumed floors shit.  Most things are in their place or at least in the vicinity of their place.

I can’t bare to watch.  The beginning of the after-school-clean-house-undoing. They’ve started in the eldest’s room.  I’m making no attempt to stop them.  I’ve just walked in at 3:30 and made three steps to the computer and let them go. I need some mummy time. I will feed them eventually.  I need this more.  The eldest’s room makes sense.  It is where all the good toys are.  All the originals.  Toy HQ.  All the electronic stuff.

 “I dun a wee mummy”.  This is the fall out of my slack homecoming.  Alright, you’re two – you can’t possibly change yourself – I’ll be back.

I will not turn the TV on.  Will not.  That would be complete failure.  As long as the television is not on I feel like I am parenting even if I can’t see any of them right now and no, I can’t hear them either.  Didn’t even notice.  They could be outside, in which case I should probably start boiling some water.  There is metal play equipment out there, it is June in Adelaide.  Could they get stuck to it? 

There we go – first tears.  Can hear them now and…here she is.

“Yes muffin?” 

“Nuh.  Your gunna have to stop crying, I can’t understand you”.

I reckon I could keep typing through this. 

“Xanthe.  You are going to have to stop crying I can’t understand what happened to you.”

I could just turn on the TV.  All this could be gone with the television.  Won’t.

There we go.  The snot rubs right up my arm.  Nice and shiny.

“Xanthe.  Off you go.  Go on.  Go.  Way you go.”

I need to deal with this.

Back soon.

Right. It’s worse than I thought.  For three non-destructive kids they have done quite the number.  The toys are mixed.  I hate mixed up toys.  The Barbies are in the car box and the littlest pet shop stuff is everywhere.  Where are all the pets?  I need to find all the pets. What if I am trying to desperately leave the house in the morning to do my school, kindy, get to the gym by 9am run and someone asks where the jumping frog pet is? I have no time to spare then.  If I can’t find it the shit’s going to hit the fan then isn’t it?

I’ve walked in the door and just wanted to type a letter to you to say “Hey” and it’s all fallen apart.  This is…and there we go…top volume yelling.  It’s the eldest, something about “Go away I want to be by myself” Understandable.  Me too sweetie.

I should go.  This has reached a point where it’s no longer worth it.  Sorry.  You understand.  The scales have tipped and I think now that they may all be crying.  Can’t quite be sure.  Too much noise.  Yes…they are all here and I am pretty sure I may now have snot up my back. 

I guess I won’t be wearing this shirt to swimming lessons tonight.

Ciao.