Knock, Knock, Who's There?

24.  So after three mental months in the kingdom of the Royal ones, there’s something that I’m still struggling to get my head around. I’m slowly getting to grips with the trolleys, the trainwreck teeth and even the nursery. (Side note on the nursery: I received another sms from my son’s school informing me and I have to quote this verbatim to do it proper justice:  “Following a recent uniform sweep, we have noticed Oliver does not have the correct socks. Please note that the correct colour socks for this term are plain grey or black. Thank you".  My son’s socks are light grey with the day of the week printed in lumo along the fold. I thought they were fab. Educational yet with a discreet splash of colour. Nope, the sweep has revealed that they’re not acceptable to the uniform police. Bad mother. My parent chart in the staff room overfloweth with black marks. I’m even getting used to that. I’ve come to expect it. I will most likely cock up anything related to school. It’s a given. I recently received an sms from the school late in the afternoon reminding us about the next day’s pyjama day. I naturally knew nothing about it. Naturally. I couldn’t even confirm that the sms was intended for me. And I swear I don't drink in the day. I only dream of that G&T. There are 200 kids in the school. I tried to call the office but it was after 5pm. I couldn’t call another mum as I don’t have a single number. They don’t do that. Share numbers, pleasantries, smiles…Sharing is not caring here. I was terrified that I’d mess up and parade my little boy into the school dressed in his bear pyjamas and he’d be viciously mocked and taunted. Kids can be so cruel. I slept badly worrying that the trauma would result in years of therapy for my son. And maybe a serial killer adulthood. All because his mum didn’t pay proper attention to school notices. The next day we left the house with him dressed in his PJs but with every item of his uniform hidden in the pram so that if I spotted any kid in his class not in civvies, we could whip them off in the bushes faster than George Michael does in a public toilet. The first kid we saw was in Shaun the Sheep PJs and I could’ve kissed him. I didn’t of course. I felt like a rockstar. I am learning. Slowly, slowy catch a monkey. 

What I’m still not getting though is the sound of the front door bell ringing or a knock on the front door. It sounds like I’ve been taking pink pills. I haven't. Bear with me. In South Africa we live fenced within our palisade, electric, gumpole or precast variation. We drive into our homes through a remote access gate. You very rarely can simply stroll up to someone’s front door and knock on it. Think about it. The only people who rap-a-tap-tap on your door in SA are those who you’ve invited in. You know exactly who to expect when you open the door because you’ve buzzed them in. It’s all we know and there’s a private dignity to it in my opinion. In this place, people are perfectly able (and willing it appears) to ring your front doorbell at all hours. There’s no 8-foot fence. No razor wire. No reinforced "guy stands in front of it with a swinging big-ass metal ball in the advert to prove it's strong" gate. No dog protecting your space. I struggle with this. And I struggle too with who rings my door bell. And why. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. No, it’s more like the conversion pursuant Mormons (who my son scared away), the woman raising money for hospice, the research survey people, the school raffle kids, the guy taking catalogue orders. I’m not a tight-ass. I support the hospice and RSCPA by shopping and donating to the charity shop. I will sponsor a walk for breast cancer. If I have cash, I always support the tin-toting ballies standing at the supermarket entrances. Who doesn't? I’m also not an unfriendly psycho freak. I have friends. I don’t have agoraphobia. I just don’t appreciate having someone at my doorstep with a clipboard at 6pm at night. At that time, my house is like George Orwell’s Animal Farm. My kids are feral. So am I. My kids are tired. I’m tired of them. There’s washing drying on the radiators. There’s food on the floor. It's not pretty. And neither am I. I am in my manky PJs and my face is usually smeared with moisturiser that I’m too lazy to rub in so I just leave it to sink in by itself. It means I look like a Geisha and not in a good way. I've also got about 6 months worth of chav re-growth to deal with that I keep putting off. Seriously. To have to greet a stranger on my doorstep in this state isn’t comfortable for me or the intruder visitor. Mostly for me. 

One evening last week, I was bathing my kids when the doorbell rang. I have to admit that I do leave them alone in the bath on occasion. They don’t go through an entire bath unsupervised. That would result in a Carte Blanche profile I’m sure. And again not in a good way. But if I can hear two sets of voices and splashing sounds while I’m getting the PJs, we’re all good. That's my litmus test. Mothers are blessed with freakishly good hearing. They’re still alive. Still breathing. Speaking of breathing reminds me that I once had a very narrow bathtime escape. Back home in SA when my daughter was a couple of months old and very floppy in the bath ring. Ok in the spirit of full disclosure, she probably was too young for the bath ring. You get impatient with the second one. I asked my son to watch her while I nipped up the passage to turn off the oven before his fish fingers burnt and could be bounced off the walls. I was literally 20 seconds. I did run. I promise. When I got back, my daughter had folded over double as only those Anne Geddes posed babies can and her head (which granted is abnormally big) was submerged under the water and her short little arms were flapping about like Nemo. After I’d plucked her out spluttering and checked for signs of brain damage, I said to my son: “Ollie. What happened? I asked you to watch your sister”. To which he replied indignantly, “I did watch her. Her head went in the water. I watched it.” Never a more contextualised lesson learnt that it’s probably not wise to let your older one look after your younger one if the age gap is less than a decade. Just to be safe mind. Especially in the bath.

So last week when the doorbell rang downstairs, I honestly wasn’t too happy to leave them alone. I raced down the stairs, flung open the door and was greeted by…a man-child with a clipboard. He launched immediately into his spiel and I cut him off by asking him for a brochure as I didn’t have time to talk. He said he didn’t have a brochure. I said it wasn’t a good time. He asked me if I’d been touched by cancer. I told him yes but reiterated that I really couldn’t talk. He responded that cancer is a silent killer and sufferers need all the support they can get. I repeated that I understood, wanted to support, would go online but really had to go. He said that it would take five minutes to sign me up for a couple of pounds a month and that I could save a life. It was the “save a life" comment that was like the petrol bomb to a thatched house for me. I told him that I was sorry. I told him I had my own lives to save and that my children were drowning in the bath upstairs and I had to go. I promptly slammed the door in his face. I’m pretty sure that on his clipboard in the space for comments next to our house number he’s written: “Rude and crazy single foreign (Australian?) woman. Very weird white face. Hysterical tendencies. Children at drowning risk.”

Since Cancer Guy, I’ve been waiting for the doorbell to ring. Not for him. I don’t think he’d brave it. I’ve been waiting for Child Services. Seriously. I’m in the same expectant state of emergency as I was when we had our home assessment interview with the teacher at Oliver’s school before they would accept him. Yes they really come to your house. I’ve got all my contraband (booze, chocolate and the like) ready to be hauled into the cupboard under the stairs. I’ve got the appropriate toys stacked neatly in wait. Floors are clean. I’m ready. Only thing I have to let rest on a wing and prayer is my kids. I can only hope that my son doesn’t feel the need to make any inappropriate comments. I never can tell when he’s going drop one with Hiroshima effect. One of his most memorable was the time we were walking out of the Pick ‘n Pay in Kloof. I was heavily pregnant with my daughter. He was sitting in the trolley noshing on a packet of Flings. As we emerged out of the Fields Centre into the daylight, we were greeted by the sight of a typical late summer’s afternoon storm cloud. All dark and brooding. He looked up at me and said as clear as day and louder than any mother wants her child to say anything except maybe ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. He said: “F*ck Mom, I think it’s going to rain.” If he pulls one of those, we’re toast.

If it's 6pm on a weekday, knock at your own risk.