But before I can blame myself for losing my flat and having children, I quickly have to fix dinner, clean out lunch boxes, check schoolbags, cut fingernails, yell quite a lot, enforce rules, give a few lectures, read aloud, supervise toothbrushing (twice to be on the safe side) and replacing the cap on the toothpaste tube, hang up towels, and yell a bit more. Apologise for yelling, pick up and fold clothes that have been chucked in corners, shake out lumpy quilts, fetch glasses of water and, of course, look for cuddly toys and give goodnight kisses. Don’t worry! I’m not complaining; I only have myself to blame. Why did I have these children? I can answer that question when they’re all asleep; I can assert who I am when I have time to write again.
That’s why this is exactly the opposite of a well-formed, elegantly written novel.
‘Well-formed and elegant.’
Well-formed with proportions of 90 x 60 x 90, an ideal for which Demi Moore had two lower ribs removed, and which looks elegant in silk stockings and a shift dress, an outfit that you not only have to wear but also know how to move in.
My name is Resi, my husband is Sven, and our kids, who are fourteen, eleven, eight, and five, are Bea, Jack, Kieran, and Lynn.
We were bonkers to have them: it was our decision, so we only have ourselves to blame.
We had Bea because we thought it would be wonderful to have children. Then Jack, so that Bea wouldn’t be an only child. Kieran, so that we didn’t seem like a typical family. And Lynn? You could call it hubris. Or cabin fever?
Two artists without two pennies to rub together with four children. I have no idea how we manage, but recently I realised that ‘How on earth do you manage?’ isn’t a question or a compliment. It’s a euphemism that shows the person asking doesn’t think your life is manageable, and that you’re stupid to even try.
‘I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,’ is the real meaning behind ‘How on earth do you manage?’ and it doesn’t make it any easier to realise that all those friendly fellow mums and non-mums, journalists and editors, colleagues and friends who asked this question in the past were actually bloody glad not to be in my shoes.
You can talk yourself into believing that life is exciting with so many children, that it’s all fun and one big adventure. Because they’re wonderful human beings; and it’s wrong that that sounds sarcastic, because they really are wonderful human beings.
Children can’t be a mistake, despite the fashion of regretting motherhood these days. And I don’t want to hear ‘Surely there’s no law against saying …’ — because no, there isn’t, but you still can’t say it. Not if we believe in the dignity of all people.
It’s best to follow the rules of what you can say about refugees, and keep it low-key, such as: ‘Logistically, it’s quite a challenge’, which is absolute rubbish because the state pays, and the state is rich, and there aren’t that many in the end. The reason I call them ‘the hoard’ or ‘the brood’ is just to cast myself in the role of an extremely valiant animal trainer, who really does ‘manage’ somehow.
We weren’t forced to do what we did. We could have saved our money and spent our time doing something else. This inter-generational exercise in maximum stress could have been prevented through the use of condoms! But I thought it would be nice. I’d read too many glossy mags, watched too many Astrid Lindgren films; Angelina Jolie and her clutch of kids. Midsummer Night in Noisy Village. Arnie Grape’s birthday.
But in our family, the music is somehow missing, and the film just carries on playing. The soundtrack and pictures aren’t in sync.
As for the dialogue:
Child: ‘Is there anything to eat?’
Mother: ‘Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice.’
Child: ‘What? I’m just asking if there’s anything to eat.’
Mother: ‘You’re not just asking, you’re snapping. How about saying “Hello” first?’
Child: ‘Hello, is there anything to eat?’
We’re all stuck in the making-each-other-happy trap. And woe betide us if we don’t.
Mother: ‘Turn it off and tidy your room.’
Child: ‘I just need to finish this level!’
Mother: ‘Turn it off. I’m going to count to three.’
Child: ‘Bloody hell, you’re so stupid!’
Mother: ‘One, two—’
Child: ‘No!’
Mother: ‘Yes.’ Grabs tablet from child. ‘You’ll never stop unless I take it away. You’re addicted.’
Child (in a flat tone): ‘You haven’t counted to three yet.’
Mother: ‘What? Clear up your room now. It’s disgusting. Don’t you realise that animals are breeding in among all this?’
Child touches the pile of stuff with the tip of one toe.
Mother: ‘Come on. Get a move on.’
Child’s tears fall onto pile of stuff.
Mother: ‘What’s the matter?’
Child doesn’t answer. In his world, he’s probably died or lost a bunch of diamonds and skills. Mother has no idea about the child’s world, child’s life, or child’s skills.
Mother: ‘I have to tell you to clear up. And if you only ever sit around playing with your tablet, you’ll turn out stupid and fat, and your tendons will get shorter, and your feet won’t touch the ground in the real world, and animals will breed in here. Do you think I enjoy doing this?’
Child: (in a flat tone): ‘Yes.’
Mother: ‘Really! So you think I clear up after you all day and spoil your fun because I enjoy it?
Child: ‘No.’
Mother: ‘Well. I don’t. I don’t enjoy having to say the same thing all the time, not one little bit! “Turn that thing off, clear up, lay the table, brush your teeth!” Maybe you could do it without me asking for a change? And why on earth are you crying?’
Child: ‘Because you’re shouting at me?’
Mother: ‘But why am I shouting at you?’
Child: ‘Why should I brush my teeth in the middle of the day?’
Somehow this scene
