 |
|
|
|
|
The Witching Hour
Written by Laure Dardennes
My friends call this the 'Witching Hour'... I climb upstairs bracing myself for what I am going to find. My ears are full of screams, laughs, running, chasing, jumping, crying, punching. As I come to the scene, my heart drops: last time I was there it was tidy, clean and dry! Why is there water all over the floor of the bathroom? Why is there a glass full of water on the bedroom window sill? How many cars have been thrown across the room? Why are the children running around naked when I perfectly well remember seeing them in pyjamas not so long ago?
Once more, my mind starts racing: what am I not doing right? Should I be stricter? More tolerant? Should I be there every minute of the day to check that each situation does not degenerate? Why is motherhood so hard at times? Am I really a good mum? Am I the mum they need? And the question that comes back like a leitmotiv: can I really do this or am I just kidding myself?
When the mood is definitely positive, I feel on top of the world and my (unique?) situation does not feel so dreadful. I am happy, positive and relating well to the children. I am active, full of ideas about what to do at home or about days out, holidays, even trips round the world. I know I want to do it, I know I can do it, there is no doubt in my mind. The world is out there and one day soon, we will go out there and explore.
Then comes the 'Witching Hour', when our lovely family transforms into wild screaming and stamping. My confidence drops. The mother who could do it all disappears, replaced by an all-doubting, tired thing that the children seem to bounce off or jump on!
So where is this Super Mum who, half an hour ago, was ready to book her plane tickets for Canada or Greece, or even India or Peru?
My life then seems to turn into a prison from which my only escape seems to be bedtime and chocolate!
When I meet mothers with several children, my first question is usually: "Do you have a lot of help?" as this seems to me one of the best ways to remain sane. My family and friends are quite impressed I have not had a nervous breakdown yet. Sometimes I wonder how much freedom of choice I really have. I suppose I could have decided that it was all too much and run away from it all. But could I live with the guilt of having left four young children? Why, then, can men do it with impunity?
When my twins were born, my daughter was three weeks away from her fourth birthday and my son was not even two. My husband, children and I had just moved to a big house in a new area, and because we were having twins, I was expecting total involvement from my husband in our family life, even though it had not been the case before. We had both been over the moon when the scan revealed two babies. We had both felt blessed. I still do.
But the dream of a united family soon changed and it became a distant picture as I went about, day after day, hour after hour, trying to remain on top of the washing, cooking, cleaning, nappies (lovely cloth nappies; oh, how I did love my cloth nappies!) and breastfeeding for the first four months (my twins seemed to want to feed continuously). All day, every day, I carried my twins: one in the sling, one in my left arm and I was doing everything that needed doing with my right hand. Until they crawled at six months, the moment I put my boys down they screamed! Now, I look back and wonder how I managed on my own most of the time with four young children!
I believe I stopped thinking for about two years. If I had stopped to reflect on my situation (if I had had time to stop and think!), I believe I would have gone crazy or at least been completely unable to function. When I did stop and think I decided enough was enough. I left the house with my children, we went to live in a little two-bedroom flat and I asked for a divorce.
Now the children are a bit older: the twins are four, my son is six and my daughter is eight. I am still very much on my own to deal with everything on a daily basis: my family is in France, though they have been very supportive, both financially and physically. The children's dad has once again more or less disappeared from our lives even though the children still talk about him as if he were part of the family. Luckily, I have the most fantastic group of friends who are always there. We have moved to a little house which makes life easier. And I am sure our former neighbour who lived in the flat underneath us now feels like she is in a very quiet paradise! One of my wonderful friends has found a baby sitter for me so that I can go out and learn to dance and have a different kind of social life once a week. I feel much better. Things are easier than when my four children were younger and I feel I can do anything, even travel around the world with them.
But what about those Witching Hours? Why is it so hard? Why is it so draining? Why is there no one to take over? It would help if someone could hold one of the twins while I get the other one off the couch: they think it is so much fun to climb back on when I have taken one off! What do I do when two of the children scream to go home while the other two scream to stay in the park or at the beach? Or when one desperately needs the toilet? What do I do when I have just run out of butter for dinner or food for breakfast? Do I put them all in the car to go to the shop? Do we walk there, all of us, as it is getting dark and cold? Why does every little thing need so much consideration, organisation and energy? Why do I never wake up on my own? When will I be able to have a lie in? All these questions and many more race around my poor tired head as I estimate the damage that suddenly developed while I was doing the washing up. I get angry, tense; I wonder what I have done to deserve this...
Then I take a deep breath, get everybody ready for bed, again, and we all settle down on the bed with our pile of books. I start reading. Very slowly, the magic seems to come back to the room as I do not feel completely exhausted anymore. I am gradually less stressed. I feel these little bodies cuddling up to me, passionate about their stories just as I am passionate about my books, asking for "One more, Mummy, please" and going to bed with their own pile of books.
Then things do not seem so unbearable anymore. Maybe it is not that hard. Maybe I am not such a bad mother. Maybe I can do it after all...
Laure is a single mum who lives in Kent with her four home-educated children. When she is not overwhelmed by the whole situation, she tries to bring passion in her children's lives. She has enough projects for the next 30 years, including travelling round the world!
Back to Articles
|
|
|
|
|
|
© Juno Magazine 2007 |
|
|
|
|
|
