I bought my recording equipment with me to Nanny and Grandad’s this time. Oh and I also brought the three children – four, two, and 12 weeks.
The optimistic part of me envisaged three little, dark-haired children suddenly losing their joy of the fight – the fight of anyone, anything, at anytime – and playing beautifully with each other.
Instead the right hooks are out and poor Nanny and Grandad are caught in the crossfire. They are tough and so full of heart, but my kids can break even the well-seasoned… though they have a way of doing this whilst also winning your heart with cheeky grins, unexpectedly deep-hearted warmth, and bright talk that is beyond their years.
My recording equipment sits in the corner still.
The attic room remains empty. No song will be heard there for a while yet.
My recording gear, thankfully, is patient – unlike my children.
I grab a sip of luke warm tea and realise that we probably won’t last the week here. Not that grandparents wouldn’t soldier on. It just wouldn’t be fair on them. The 5.30am wake ups and relentless days, hoping upon hope for moments of happy faces and giggles from full bellies.
I text husband: “We won’t last the week babe”. He sends back a laughing text. Better to laugh than cry I suppose. Better that my current season of life be a comedy show rather than a horror show – but it’s a fine line.
I look at my recording equipment again. It is calling… but so is the baby.