Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)
‘Well, if nothing else, you need someone to show you how to turn taps on.’ He reached over to the square tap column and turned a bit of the base, at which water started gushing out. ‘Have a look on Goop,’ he said, suddenly changing back into funny, flippant Tom. ‘See what Gwyneth has to say about sex and French-style parenting!’
11.15 p.m. Just said goodnight to Chloe, trying to conceal slight squiffiness.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I mumbled sheepishly.
‘Five minutes?’ she said, wrinkling her nose, kindly. ‘Glad you had a bit of fun!’
11.45 p.m. In bed now. Tellingly, am wearing, instead of usual pyjamas with dogs on, which match the children’s, the only vaguely sexual nightie I can still get into. Suddenly have surge of hopeful feeling. Maybe Talitha is right! If I shrivel and become bitter, then what use will that be to the children? They will become child-centric, demanding King Babies: and I a negative, rasping old fool, lunging at sherry, roaring, ‘WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING FOR MEEEEEEEEE?’
11.50 p.m. Maybe have been going through long dark tunnel, which there is light at the end of. Maybe someone could love me? Is no reason why could not bring a man back here. I could put a hook inside bedroom door, so the children wouldn’t walk in on ‘us’, creating an adult, sensual world of . . . gaaah! Cry from Mabel.
11.52 p.m. Rushed into kids’ room to see fluffy-headed figure in bottom bunk, sitting up, then quickly bending over, flat-pack style, which is what she always does as she is not supposed to wake up in the night. Mabel then sat straight up again, looked down at her pyjamas, which belched diarrhoea, opened her mouth and was sick.
11.53 p.m. Lifted Mabel into the bath and removed PJs, trying not to retch.
11.54 p.m. Washed and dried Mabel, sat her on floor, then went to find new PJs, remove sheets and attempt to locate clean sheets.
Midnight. Crying from kids’ room. Still carrying diarrhoea sheets, diverted to room, only to hear rival crying emerging from bathroom. Considered wine. Reminded self am responsible mother, not slapper in All Bar One.
12.01 a.m. Flapped in fugue-like state between kids’ room and bathroom. Level of bathroom-crying notched up. Rushed in, assuming Mabel consuming Bic razor, poison or similar, to find her pooing on the floor with expression both guilty and startled.
Overwhelmed by love for Mabel. Picked her up. Diarrhoea and sick now not only on sheets, bathmat, Mabel, etc., but also on vaguely sexual nightie.
12.07 a.m. Went to kids’ room, still holding Mabel, plus diarrhoea ensemble, to find Billy out of bed, hair all hot and messy, looking up as if I was benign God with answer to all things. Billy held my gaze, whilst belching sick in manner of Exorcist except head remained in forward stationary position instead of spinning round and round.
12.08 a.m. Diarrhoea erupted onto Billy’s PJs. Billy’s bewildered expression overwhelmed self with love for Billy. Ended up in diarrhoea/vomit-filled California-style ‘group hug’ embracing Billy, Mabel and diarrhoea sheets, bathmat, PJs and vaguely sexual nightie.
12.10 a.m. Wished Mark was here. Had sudden flashback to Mark in his lawyerly dressing gown at night, the glimpse of hairy chest, the sudden flashes of humour at baby chaos, getting all military trying to organize us all, as if it was some sort of cross-border situation, then realizing the absurdity of it all, and both of us ending up giggling.
He’s missing all the little moments, I thought. Missing his own children growing up. Even this would have been funny instead of confusing and scary. One of us could have stayed with them and the other done the sheets, then we could have got into bunk beds again and giggled about it and . . . how could anyone else ever delight in them and love them as he would have, even when they are pooing everywhere and . . .?
12.15 a.m. ‘Mummy!’ Billy jerked self back to reality. Was difficult situation, undeniably: everyone poo- and sick-smeared, alarmed and retching. Ideal would be to separate children and fabrics/fluids and put both children in warm bath and find sheets. But what if pooing/vomiting continued? What then? Water could become toxic, and possibly cholera-filled, like open sewer in refugee camp.
12.16 a.m. Arrived at makeshift solution: placing plastic mat on bathroom floor with pillows, towels, etc. generally around.
12.20 a.m. Resolved to go down to washing machine (i.e. fridge to get wine).
12.24 a.m. Closed door and ran down.
12.27 a.m. Having cleared head with swig of wine, realized was immaterial washing sheets, etc. Only essential objective, surely, was to keep children alive until morning, ideally simultaneously avoiding nervous breakdown.
12.45 a.m. Realized wine, though fortifying head, had done opposite to stomach.
12.50 a.m. Threw up.
2 a.m. Billy and Mabel both now asleep on bathroom floor on and under towels, cleaned to a degree. Resolve simply to sleep next to them in poo- and sick-covered vaguely sexual nightie.
2.05 a.m. Experiencing pleasing sense of triumph, like general who has brought massacre, bloodbath, etc. back from brink, engineering peaceful solution: even starting to hear theme tune from Gladiator, seeing self as Russell Crowe, partially obscured by caption: ‘A Hero Will Rise’.
At same time, however, am unable to avoid sense that attempting any sort of erotic scenario with this sort of thing going on might not be a particularly good idea.
A NEW START – A NEW ME
Friday 20 April 2012
173lb, minutes set aside for meditation 20, minutes spent meditating 0.
2 p.m. Right. Have made a decision. Am going to completely change. Am going to return to Zen/New Age/self-help-book study and yoga, etc., starting from the inside not the outside, meditate regularly, and lose weight. Have got all set up with candle and yoga mat in bathroom and am going to quietly meditate and settle mind before taking kids to doctors, remembering to allow time to a) get snacks and b) locate missing car keys.