It’s 1995. Ten years and two kids into marriage and I’ve learned to plan simple wholesome meals and to organise my time to prepare and cook them well. No lumpy custard from my kitchen. No exotic dishes either, I’m afraid. I do basic stuff. Brenton likes meat and three veg, with homemade dessert and a coffee and mint or three for supper.
Our eldest son, Search, cries out, ‘Mum, Destroy took my aeroplane.’
I talk to them both about kindness and sharing and encourage them to hug. Destroy gives Search his aeroplane and takes the helicopter.
Mum pops in and chastises me for the clutter.
‘Jennifer,’ she says, ‘Housekeeping Monthly suggests you wander through the house just before your husband comes home, tidying as you go. And be gay and interesting for him when he walks through the door, she adds.
‘That advice is from 1955, mother and “gay” has a different connotation these days.’
Destroy cries out from the dining room. He’s twisted his ankle climbing down from reaching for the aeroplane in the middle of the table. I chastise Search for putting the toy out of his brother’s reach and kiss Destroy’s foot.
‘Wrong foot,’ he sobs.
‘I’ll check the roast while you bath the boys, Jennifer,’ Mother says.
‘Housekeeping Monthly mentions washing hands and faces only, Mother,’ I say wryly. (I’d read the article too.)
The telephone rings. It’s Jill wanting the crocheted rugs I’ve made for the homeless before Thursday. ‘No problem; almost finished. I’ll deliver to yours at 8.00 am tomorrow.’ I reassure her and say goodbye.
I turn to shunt Search and Destroy into the bathroom. There’s a cracking sound when Search trips over Buzz Lightyear.
‘Noooo,’ cries Destroy. He picks up Buzz and hands him to me to kiss better.
Mum puts the yarn she’s bought in the wool basket and the milk in the ‘fridge. She bastes the roast and pops into the bathroom to kiss the boys goodbye.
‘Now, Jen,’ she says, ‘take fifteen minutes to rest, so you’ll be refreshed when Brenton gets home. And don’t forget to touch up your make-up’.
‘You’re a tease, Mother.’
Brenton arrives home and I smile as I remember the article’s advice. ‘You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival isn’t the time’.
Jennifer recalls that her last twelve hours would make a lizard dizzy, but she smiles and asks her husband about his day.
‘Oh, one like any other,’ he says.
‘Mum popped in with the yarn she bought,’ I tell him.
‘Nice.’
‘She pointed out my housewifely shortcomings and quoted suggestions I’d do well to adopt, from the Housekeeping Monthly of May 1955.’
‘What does the magazine recommend?’ Brenton asks.
‘Greet you in a soothing voice, take your shoes off and arrange your pillow.’
‘So, you’ll be implementing the recommendations at your earliest, then, dear.’
‘In your dreams, dear.’
‘Hmmm, the roast smells good.’
‘Work was horrendous, and the kids were whingy. A roast needs minimal prep and everyone likes it, so, a roast it is.’
‘I’m a lucky man.’
