The Fly In The Ointment

 

Brenda feels like she hasn't stopped. Because she hasn't. It hasn't been by choice. Ever since that blasted 'Inside Out' flick came out she's been terrified that her children's core memory islands are going to be 'Air fried pizza', 'Benign Neglect', 'Mom is on her phone again' and 'I've watched this episode of Rescue Riders 235 times'. 

Brenda has milked the last ounce of 2023 energy to ensure that her kids have laid down some core festive season memories that would put Bluey's Mom to shame. She also hopes the Instagram reel of their December holidays will put Ingrid, her arch nemesis from Under 9 Club Rugby, to shame. 

This year was a trinomial of festivities. Time in the Berg with family, a quick soiree to Jozi with the in-laws followed by a week at the beach with people whose children are almost as beautiful as Brenda's which makes for fantastic Facebook pictures and posts about the joy of childhood friendship.

Apart from using every last cent of her bonus and January salary on her children, their Christmas presents, various activities to ensure a balanced holiday experience and the purchasing of endless food that her children seem to inhale, it has been a good holiday.

Has Brenda relaxed? No. Did she go for the follow up laser hair removal appointment she's missed for the past 7 months? No. Did she read that book about a couple surviving the bubonic plague? No. Did she have a single moment with her husband? No. Has she put on 4.3 kgs? Yes.

She's ok with all of that because she did everything she could to ensure that her kids will one day say she tried her best. For now her kids are enjoying poking her fat stomach constantly asking if daddy put another baby in there.

But there has been one thing that has threatened to topple Brenda's magnanimous attitude towards a festive season that has been festive for everyone but her. 

Laundry. 

Few people will ever be able to appreciate the military tactics that go into 21 days of holiday, 3 location changes, 19 days of rain, 3 daily wardrobe changes per child, 4 bags of luggage, an additional Christmas wardrobe of clothes courtesy of Granny and the endless wet, muddy pile of laundry that shows that 'the kids had fun'. 

Brenda doesn't believe in grubby children. Each to their own but you never know who you're going to bump into on holiday. She's sure as hell not going to introduce her family to her varsity unicorn, who is out from the UK and who she stumbles across at The Waffle Hut, with her family covered in day old toothpaste, slime from a Christmas stocking and mud from an early morning bike ride. Oh no, standards have to be kept and clothes need to be washed.

And that's what Brenda did. On the two days of sun shine she laundered like no one has ever laundered. Like the brave matyr in the movies fighting off the bad guys when her family asked her if she wanted to do the canopy tour she looked at them with a pained expression, laundry basket filled with wet, freshly washed clothes, and said, sacrificiallly, "No, you go on without me."

For the rest of the time she moved malfunctioning clothes horses to various dry parts of whatever abode she found herself in. Sometimes a load took a week to dry but she did it and her kids always looked presentable. And that gives her a smug sense of pride. 

It is now the 1st of January 2024 and Brenda is finally home and able to put her kids in front of Bluey with an air fried pizza on their laps feeling completely guilt free. She has fulfilled her festive season quest. The kids can watch TV for the rest of the holiday for all she cares.

As she glances in the mirror at the grey hair that she is now no longer able to hide a self-satisfied smile appears in her face. Not only did she stay on top of laundry this holiday but she has returned home with just one black refuse bag of laundry and the rest of the clothing in their extensive luggage is actually clean. She has done the impossible. 

As she saunters over to the biggest bag, the bag containing her two year old son's entire wardrobe of tiny, hard to fold and kak to hang up clothing she is specifically proud of herself. Baby clothes hold a specially bitter place in her heart. But she can literally pack the entire bag straight back into his cupboard because she has been so industrious. 

As Brenda unzips the bag an astringent smell hits her. A cold sweat sprouts and her fingers start to tremble. She starts to tentatively move freshly folded miniscule clothes from the bag praying that perhaps the dog just farted. But as she peels off layers of clothing the smell gets worse and she realizes that all the clothes have absorbed the smell. She gets to the middle of the bag, and there it is and Brenda's life, or at least 10 minutes of it, flashes before her eyes.  

There was a moment during the packing episode when her toddler walked in having produced a slippery eel of a poo that appeared to be everywhere but his nappy. The rhythm of her packing interrupted she called for her husband to assist but he was too busy trying to attach the Tule rooftop box to the top of the Fortuner. So Brenda decided that the poo laden Paw Patrol clothes (a gift from Aunty Sally in Denver) will just have to be collateral damage. She left them in a smoldering pile in the bathroom, bathed her stinky kid, dressed him and gave him a bar of chocolate. Her eldest then distracted her with a minor temper tantrum demanding chocolate too. As Brenda's husband walked past in search of an allen key she gave him instructions to get rid of the offending clothes in the bathroom. He mumbled something. And after finding the last candy cane from the Christmas stocking to give to her hyperventilating eldest and then quickly packing snacks for the road Brenda returned to her packing, a little less focused. She should have smelt the literal rat when she saw her toddler lurking with intent behind the curtain in her bedroom. 

And now as Brenda clasps the kak soaked Paw Patrol shorts in her hands she let's out a primal scream of rage. The dog now does fart and runs out the room. Her husband sprints to the wendy house in the garden and her children look knowingly at each other, it feels like home again. As Brenda struggles to carry the mammoth poo reeking bag to the laundry, she glances out the window and an insidious, slow drizzle of rain starts to fall. The kind that never develops into anything real but that is likely to stay for at least two weeks. A small part of Brenda's soul leaves her body. Bluey's Mother does not have to put up with this shit.