Me and the Not So Small Son have been left home alone this week as Mr. H has departed on a painting holiday. Not that he has discovered his inner artist, he’s gone to help a friend paint a house. But as he left with a spring in his step and a car boot full of beer (gluten free of course), I think escaping the wife and child for a week counts as a holiday.
The NSSS loves being the man of the house. He got ahead of himself last night by sawing up a fallen tree and stockpiling logs (all my kids spent far too much time reading and re-reading Little House On The Prairie), just in case we get snowed in this week.
My ability to remain in charge and assert my authority should prove interesting. The NSSS is at that age where all women are inferior and mothers are beyond contempt.
I witnessed this on Saturday when I dutifully turned up to collect him from his week long school trip to Italy. As my baby boy got off the coach, I had one of those maternal love waves where you think to yourself, “How on earth did I create something so handsome. And enormous? I love him sooo much.” He in turn, spun round, spotted me, glared at me and looked embarrassed before turning on his heel and hiding among his crowd of friends. Ho hum.
Mr. H has helped to stack the control odds in my favour however by leaving the NSSS about half a ton of clay to shovel up and wheelbarrow uphill to the designated dumping spot in the field. A tired teenager is a trouble free teenager in my book. And a hungry teenager who has done a morning’s hard labour is much more appreciative of his mother when she plies him with lobster bisque for lunch. Followed by chorizo risotto and home-made apple compote. Cleaning out the fridge and discovering the (very gourmet) tin of lobster bisque at the back of the cupboard more than paid off. I am currently Mother of the Year and the NSSS is shovelling like a demon.
For now I have established my superior status; I just need to make sure I can hang onto it until the boss gets home.
