I was very honest the other day when I said that I was simply too tired to even contemplate- let alone desire- another child. Not that I’m having troubles toting this bag of flesh from one point to another, but I find myself sick unto the bone of certain child related things.

For example, I’m beginning to find it very tedious, after almost ten years, to walk back and forth to the little school down the street four times a day. I have either six or seven more years of this ahead of me, depending upon whether or not The Baby is a bright penny in the bunch or just your average, jolly kid.

Imagine that : for 17 years, for five days a week, I will have walked back and forth to the little school down the street, four times a day.

And one thing that I won’t miss at all is the play date. You know, where Mummies huddle together and schedule gay times for their children to interact with other, wee humans. Here is what I prefer : your friends are welcome here after any school day. I don’t care how many come, but they all leave by 5, 5.30 if you grovel very well indeed.

The Baby had a play date today. The lad was supposed to spend 1 hour and 45 minutes at our house. After 15 minutes, I knew that this had been a terrible mistake. After an hour, I buttoned up his jacket and walked him home.

His mother was horrified, insisted that I tell her the truth, no matter how dire it might be. But I eased her mind, told her what was perhaps the truth : it was all The Baby’s fault. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to deal with it. Once- a very long time ago, when The Girl was The Baby’s age, I might have done handsprings, Humphrey Bogart imitations, anything to capture the lad’s interest, make The Play Date a success. but here is where I am after three kids : eh, go home, put us all out of our misery.

With an attitude like that, my baby making days are over. Although I have to say, the concept of play dates has always just seemed so…contrived to me.

I never had a Play Date as a child, something scribbled into an agenda. Did you ?

No, to be very honest, Play Dates have always set my nerves on edge. A Play Date asks me, the Mummy Dearest, if I can provide a fun time for the wee ones.

Cut the shit, I can’t. They are on their own, sink or swim.

As I was kneeling upon my well educated knees this morning, shortly before lunch, scrubbing the kitchen floor and wondering what on earth Snow White found to sing about as she scrubbed away, the phone rang.

It was Oma. Last weekend, one of Mr. Jo’s daughters died- playing cards on Saturday, found in a coma the next day. Blood clot, they are saying. She was 41. I knew that The Father and I would go to the services and so will The Father’s parents.

In that it’s- a -small- world way of life, the church is in the very same area where The Father and I started out together, living in sin in a student house in Tilburg.

Mr. Jo came to work, though, today. Not here, but elsewhere. said that he couldn’t very well just sit at home, alone, and stare at the walls, could he ?

Rather work . Keep busy.

The Father walked into the kitchen this evening and remarked upon how good it smelled in the kitchen. Which was odd, as he is no bigger fan of chicken soup than I, but it does indeed really smell all cozy and tempting.

This morning I lifted the two legs- with- thighs out of their package. After a quick glance, I decided that I didn’t want to examine them any closer, no, not at all. Especially the underside. Yukkus. I could always strain the broth through a towel, capture those rogue feathers. I didn’t even want to think about plucking them out, having it all so in my face.

But it all smells very nice indeed, the onions, the carrot, the celery. I shall fuss about how to finish it off tomorrow- with rice or with a nice quality pasta sort. Are the vegetables too mushy now, should I replace them ? Don’t I need a bit of green ?

Eh, my brother found Nirvana in Cambell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, what on earth am I fussing about ?

I suppose that all parents have certain things that they would just prefer that their children didn’t grow up to be. No, not like heroin addicts: that is sortof a given , isn’t it ? Think about this, for example : have you seen me covering your retinas with snapshots of our girls in pink tutus ? Here is what The Father and I think of ballet classes for little girls : Bulimia 101. Perhaps that isn’t quite fair, but that’s how we see it. The Girl is happy with her horses and perhaps The Baby will want to join football, after all, she is left- handed, perhaps she is left- footed as well. We can dream.

Now,The Boy. The Father’s nightmare- in fact, he forbids The Boy to even think about it – is that The Boy will grow up to be an archaeologist, just like Mummy Dearest. I myself find that a wee, tad strong, after all, The Father married one, didn’t he ? We aren’t so bad are we ? Well, at least I wasn’t foolish enough as to enmesh my fate with one, was I ?

Unfortunately, The Boy has all of the makings for a good- perhaps even a great- archaeologist, but I play by the rules, I discourage him, tell him the down side of the profession, why I left.

My nightmare is that The Boy will want to become a Man of the Cloth. Remember , he is being raised as a catholic. One part of this stems from the fact that like all mothers, I would like him one day- when he is all grown up- to settle into a happy and close relationship, build a nest with someone that he loves and loves him in return. Awww, how Mummy Dearest of me.

Another part stems from the two years I spent living in a dormitory filled with dozens of Methodist priestlets. The few women in the dorm ( I do believe that there were four of us) were quarantined away in a small corner of the first floor, but still, it was a very peculiar environment, at least for me, coming from my life in- the- 1970s- fast- lane- women’s- college and finding myself in a seminary. Poor research skills there, Mummy Dearest.

While I said nothing, I found it hard- in those pre- Aids days- to take seriously a young man in his mid- 20s wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed that he was a virgin, and proud of it. I sometimes wondered, back then, how someone whose heart had never been broken could offer comfort to the emotionally battered.

But I was very young back then, and tended to be a bit judgmental, like all young people are.

I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.

And so this evening, I delivered my only son into the belly of the beast. The Boy liked choir practice very much, only it was so short.

Some how, the children have disconnected their computer from our wireless network.

Some how, the children have connected their computer into the wireless network across the street.

Which is WEP protected, or whatever that term is.

Some how, I’m supposed to fix this.

My brain already hurts.

I’ll think about this tomorrow. At Tara.

Last Tuesday, The Girl came home from horse riding in a fury. Now, I have caught on to how things work in the world of horse riding, and so I always ask The Girl which horse she had to ride that day. Cantankerous, she told me. Well, I asked ( although the answer was obvious) how did that go ? Cutting through to the essence of the story, while the horse gave her a hard time, he didn’t buck.

Which is why the manege put The Girl on that pony for her lesson : they always give her ponies which are starting to act up and she manages to get them back into line.

She spends a lot of time at the manege and is often called upon to help out. She is very good with young children ( so good that The Father has asked if she would like to be a teacher when she grows up. No, she answers. Next question ?). A few weeks ago, there was a children’s birthday party at the manege and the woman handling it couldn’t get the kids to get up on the ponies. So they called The Girl in and within moments the children had clambered up onto their beasts.

She often helps the handicapped to ride, and will get a few extra hours a week riding some pony which has become unmanageable for the newbs.

To tell the truth, I can understand her when she says that sometimes, she just wishes that she was on the same pony all of the time, that she wasn’t always on a pony with an attitude. Sounds fair to me.

Obviously.

Next week, she has signed up for a dressage competition. For those of you- like me pre- The Girl- who don’t know what dressage is, that is where the rider pussy- foots the horse around the ring, making it all look easy and graceful. Yesterday, I asked which horse she had signed up to use, Obedient Slave , perhaps ? All of the girls use Obedient Slave for the dressage competitions and I shall tell you why : if you strapped Elvis up on that horse, he would come out looking easy and graceful.

No, she said, Cantankerous. Obedient Slave, she told me, is boring.

Here is where Mummy Dearest rolls her eyes around in her head. Don’t you want to win ?

She simply smiled at me and walked away.The Girl

The other day, I dreamed that I had another baby, a boy. The nightmare that I find childbirth to be was not a part of the dream, only taking the baby to The Boy and saying, Look- you have a little brother. He would love to have a little brother, much in the same way that The Girl so desired having a little sister. Oddly enough, in my dream, there was no hint of prenatal testing, which all of our Mum’s- over- the- hill kids were subjected to. Nope, just one big surprise.

It was an odd dream in that I have moved beyond the baby maker stage that I was in for so very long. After so many misses, I know that I am too old to carry a child to term. And, I am too tired to as well.

Thew Baby is the last one, each milestone that she reaches closes another door behind us.

I grow very discouraged re : the pony hunt.

Very discouraged, like, I don’t see it happening.

And I’m usually very optimistic, in a sort of cheerleader- like way.

I would have fit well into any Andy Hardy flick.

Come on, kids, I have a paintbrush, you grab some nails ! We can do it !

The clock has rung 11. That party is over.

I wonder, what shall come home ?

The Girl is going to a party this evening, in the next town over. You know, my favorite place in this whole, wide world. The popular group will be there en masse- after all, it is their home turf.

The last time that The Girl went to one of these parties over there, she came home in tears, having had your classic, wallflower evening. This from a girl who wants to burn like a bright flame.

The Father and I tried talking her out of going this evening. She’s going, she told us. The Father gave her social tips ( dance with anyone, even the class dork).

She comes downstairs and shows me her outfit.I think that she looks very nice indeed, but then, I am biased. I tell her what I think, but she, too, knows that I am biased.

Mostly, I wish that she wouldn’t go. Secondly, I hope that she comes home sans tears. I’m too cynical to covet the hope that she will have a nice time.

But then, I have been wrong before- it happens. Maybe I will be wrong this time.