I hate bugs!
The doorway is further away than the bed so there is only one option open to me. I hop back to the steps and climb them, then perch on the edge as I use a tissue from my pyjama pocket to clean the squashed cricket corpses from between my toes. The thought makes me heave but what can I do? I am trapped, a prisoner in my own home, surrounded by a Gryllidae enemy. I long for some antibacterial handwash but I would have to step back into the abyss to get it, so I have to make do with an already soiled tissue.
And all this because I could not deny my son another pet. I am a stereotype of the overindulgent single mother. Will my son grow up with a sense of entitlement because I struggle to say no to him when I should stand firm? No. Henry is a good boy, not some little prince who believes everyone exists to please him. He’s kind, intelligent and sincere, even a bit too serious at times for a boy of his age. Giving him a pet all of his own is a good thing. It provides a sense of responsibility and helps him to understand how important it is to care for an animal properly. I have done the right thing; this will be good for him. Just not for me.
As these thoughts race through my mind, I sit still for a while, gazing into the darkness. My eyes burn with tiredness but I cannot look away in case I come under attack from an advancing cricket army.
I am staring at the floor as the grey dawn light seeps into the room and brings with it another day. I am cold and tired and my head is fuzzy. But only when I am certain that no crickets have found their way up the steps, do I finally surrender and crawl beneath the covers at the bottom of Henry’s bed and fall into a restless slumber.
The Sky’s the Limit
I open my eyes to find my youngest child staring at me. It’s quite disconcerting waking up to a curious child watching you intently.
‘What are you doing in Henry’s bed, Mumma?’ Anabelle’s big blue eyes roam my face.
I sit up and run my hands through my hair. I am disorientated and groggy.
‘Oh, I uh, came in here last night and I was very tired and I fell asleep.’ I peer cautiously over the edge of the bed to see if the cricket army followed me. It’s almost as if I expect them to be waiting there for me like evil sentries, ready to throw themselves kamikaze style beneath my feet.
‘All the crickets escaped, Mumma. I don’t like them. They’re in my room and in the bathroom. One tried to crawl on my foot when I went to wash my hands.’
I sigh and pull Anabelle into my lap. A flicker of pride runs through me as I inhale her unmarred sweetness and realise that she must have had a dry night. ‘I know sweetheart, Mumma doesn’t like them either. I guess today is going to involve a big clean-up.’
‘Can we go to the park too?’ she asks as she snuggles against my chest.
‘If it stays fine.’
The quilt moves and Henry sits up at the other end of the bed. His hair is messy and he has a white dribble streak up his left cheek. The lucky boy slept through it all, oblivious to the great cricket escape. ‘Mum?’ He frowns at me. ‘Why are you and Anabelle in my bed?’
‘Somebody forgot to put the lid on the cricket tub.’ I stare at him but his face is a picture of innocence. ‘They all escaped.’
‘Oh no!’ he gasps and crawls over to me. I expect him to express concerns about how on earth we are going to manage to find all of the crickets but instead he says, ‘Whatever will I feed the dragon today?’
I shake my head. ‘I guess a trip to the pet shop is in order too.’ He nods and smiles sleepily at me. ‘But first you’d better get up and see how many crickets you can catch because I don’t fancy finding the crunchy little bodies beneath my feet for the next year.’
Anabelle shudders. ‘A year, Mumma? But does that mean they will be in my room for Christmas?’ She pops her thumb into her mouth, a habit that I usually try to discourage but at this moment in time I don’t, because I know how she feels. I too need some comforting.
‘Tell you what. Let’s go down and make pancakes for breakfast shall we?’
‘Yes!’ Henry bounces on the bed and Anabelle joins in.
‘Watch your heads!’ I shout over their laughter, because a cabin bed is not the best trampoline in the world and I do not fancy having to call out a builder to have the ceiling repaired.
Downstairs, I pull flour and sugar out of the cupboard and get the milk out of the fridge. The kettle is bubbling away and Henry and Anabelle are sitting at the kitchen table chatting about the best methods to trap the errant bugs. Apparently, a snare would be a good plan but they’re not sure that they have enough wire outside in the playhouse. I make a mental note to find said wire and dispose of it. Where they’ve found wire I do not know, and how they would create a snare small enough to trap a cricket is beyond me, but their earnestness makes me smile.
The early morning sunlight streams through the window and across the kitchen floor, warming the tiles and creating a golden glow that suggests the day ahead will be fine. It lifts me, the promise of good weather, and I think that Anabelle may well be lucky and get her trip to the park. I try to avoid looking at the calendar that hangs from the wall by the door, because I know that it will dampen my mood. Four days of half-term left before we all return to school, and I know that those four days will fly. So I vow to make them count.
I measure out the ingredients then begin to beat them together into a thick batter. ‘Do you want blueberries with these?’ I ask my youngest children.
‘Yes please!’ they reply in unison.
‘Can you get them out of the fridge then, Henry?’
He does as I ask then heads for the sink. I have taught him well; he knows that everything needs to be washed before we use it. He’s funny like that anyway. Last Christmas when he wrote his wish list, at the top was SAFE. I immediately launched into worried maternal mode, concerned that he wanted to feel safe. Was he being bullied? Was he suffering insecurity because I had split from his father, or was he just trying to tell me that he needed me to hug him more? However, he’d calmly explained – in that way that eight-year-old boys can do when they think they’re talking to an irrational adult – that he actually wanted an electronic safe to keep his valuables in. So Santa brought him one. And now he locks everything in it. His money, his favourite toys – well, the ones that fit anyway. I have no idea what the combination is, so I told him to make sure that he remembers it, but he said that he will never forget as it’s linked to his favourite movies.
The conversation about keeping his money safe progressed to one about how important it was to wash his hands after he’d touched the money. Anabelle was present too and she chipped in, stating that it was especially important now since the outbreak of cola. If you didn’t wash your hands, she explained, it could kill you. I’d wondered why she’d turned her nose up at a glass of pop in a cafe a few days earlier, and suddenly it all became clear. She meant Ebola. Henry had finished the rather odd conversation with the comment that at least if his money was locked in the safe, then the Ebola couldn’t get us, so he’d lock all my money in there as well if I wanted him to. He was so determined in his desire to protect us that I gave him all the change out of my purse and now, whenever I need something from the corner shop, he offers to get me some money from The Bank of Henry.
I pour some batter into my large non-stick frying pan and drop blueberries into it. As the pancake slowly cooks through, I flip it to brown the other side. The blueberries pop in the heat and I inhale their sweet summery fragrance. Summer may be a while off, but at least we can eat as if it’s here.
When