As you grow older and obviously start to notice your mother float around the house in her apron with a feather duster, you would be mistaken to think that I have always been this mystical, organised creature.
I don’t want to shatter the perfect image that you’ll clearly have of me but I think it’s only fair that I own up to my failings.
It’s true, kids. I’m a rubbish housewife.
In the six years that your Father and I have lived together I’ve been trying to find my inner domestic goddess.
So far, this has not gone exactly to plan.
Like I said The Big Move, it’s been a bit of a learning curve adjusting to life with your Dad. In fairness, he’s not a bad lad to live with, the adjustment was more trying to run the house. I had visions of me as the quintessential 1950’s housewife, greeting your dad as he came home with dinner on the table, clean house and possibly handing him a cold beer. It all seemed doable in my head. It wasn’t.
Even days pre-children when I actually had time to achieve these things Conor was usually greeted at the door by the sight of me fanning the fire alarm with a towel to make the noise stop while smoked billowed from the kitchen, the cats would be going crazy with the beeping and I was glaring at him for looking at me sympathetically. It was clearly all his fault.
I was completely bemused as to why I couldn’t figure this out.
I thought I would take it one step at a time and concentrate on cooking. I started small and opted for soup, I mean even I could figure this one out, couldn’t I?
I didn’t need to look up such nonsense as a recipe, I was a smart independent woman who didn’t need help.
I brought my tomato soup into work the next day keen to show off my natural skills. I proudly announced to my colleagues, Lisa and Ray, that there was plenty to go round. Lisa innocently asked what the recipe was and I cerfuffed and said: “God it was so much easier than I thought. I just put a tin of chopped tomatoes and chopped an onion into a pot for 5 minutes.”
She asked if I had “sweat” the onion, clearly this was some made up term so I ignored that question. Amateurs. Funnily enough Lisa passed on the opportunity to try this beauty out but Ray wasn’t so lucky. I poured him a bowl and sat it on his desk.
That’s when the coughing started. Oh, so much coughing. His eyes watered and there was definite gagging sounds. To this day I’ve never lived that down.
Fortunately, things have improved. I make my own bread these days thank you very much! BUT I still burn steak. Our first Sunday dinner in the new house was accompanied by the chorus of fire alarms around the house and I gave up and drank wine.
It’s still a learning curve and you guys are lucky enough to be the guinea pigs. Maybe wait and let your dad eat the soup first though.