Mother Love

I love my daughters. I would willingly sacrifice anything and all that I have for them. This is without question and not simply a biological imperative.  My daughters are bright, funny, kind, beautiful and good company. They are what gives my life meaning. If I leave behind nothing else when I move from this dimension to the next, producing them will have been enough to have made my time on the planet of benefit to humanity.

They also, occasionally, read my blog, so girls, if you are reading this and wondering where it is leading, don't take my next statement the wrong way.

They have been home for about three weeks now for the Easter holidays and I can't wait for them to leave.

I have made passing reference in previous posts to the student habit of disgorging their possessions when they come home for a visit of whatever length. Clothing draped and heaped on the backs of chairs and sofas and floors; shoes and handbags at the bottom of the stairs or the middle of the living room floor; hairbands and necklaces abandoned wherever in the house the girls were when said items were removed from their bodies; laptops, phones and cables in every available plug socket (which are always left switched on. It's not just about the electricity bill - have they not heard of global warming? Aren't we, their parents, bending over backwards switching things off and recycling to make sure they have a planet to live on after we are dead?). And if it's not enough that the things they've brought with them are scattered hither and thither, an X-Box, games and control has moved from a bedroom into the living room; no matter how often I take them into the kitchen and wash them up, half-drunk glasses of juice are constantly appearing on tables and the mantelpiece; the kitchen worktops are littered with crumbs and bits of used cutlery and the sink is never empty. My home seems to have contracted in size.

And, for me, maybe the worst thing of all ... THE NOISE!! There is a constant droning hum of the TV: Friends (still! Jeez don't they know every word of every script by now?), Family Guy, Three and a Half Men, The Big Bang Theory. All that canned laughter (are Americans really so dim that they have to be told when to laugh? People, if you can't trust that your scripts are funny enough for your audience to laugh in the appropriate places, then maybe you ought to be writing better scripts?) I wouldn't mind so much, but the girls aren't actually watching the TV - they are tippity-tappiting away on their laptops and phones, 'talking' to their friends on Facebook, playing Angry Birds and watching odd clips of cats with bread on their heads on U-Tube. And the lip curling, eye rolling and snorts of derision I get if I want to watch Antiques Roadshow or Holby!

If the TV is switched off, then the iPods are on. My docking station has been redistributed. This lunchtime I had to listen to the complete works of Disney (?) interspersed with Frank Sinatra (?) and Linkin Park. Well, at least they have diverse musical tastes, I suppose.

And the conversations ...

'Jo, sew the button on my top.'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Do it yourself, I'm not doing it for you.'
'But you haven't got anything else to do.'
'No.'
'I'll pay you.'

I can't even close my bedroom door to write, because slowly they drift in, one at a time, take up residence on my bed and then start to witter to eachother.

And the worst part of all is, that when they are gone I'll bawl my eyes out and spend the next five weeks missing them and wishing they'd come home again! And when they do, they'll be home for THREE WHOLE MONTHS!!!!

I might have to look into doing up the shed.