The anxiety hit as we left the motorway at Newbury.
We had only been away for two days. We’d had a fabulous time in Stratford Upon Avon but now it was time to go home. I didn’t really want to go home. Sure, I wanted to see the kids. I just didn’t want to see the mess, the housework, the dishes, the piles of laundry…assuming of course there was a house still standing, considering…..
It had been a brave thing to do. I wasn’t feeling brave now, I was feeling anxious. I hate the end of a holiday and that awful feeling of life reaching down with clammy fat fingers and smothering your face. That oppressive feeling made worse by the suspicion that somehow I will ‘pay’ for the holiday relaxation.
Would the answering machine be full of messages? Unpaid bills? Argumentive volleys from the noxious ex? Complaints from neighbours…
Would the email box be full of missives loaded with doom.
‘Your Vodafone bill is now ready’
‘Please contact the ASB bank in New Zealand’
‘Only two more days to apply, be quick..’
‘Sorry I’ve decided to not go ahead with the project…’
Would the dog look malnourished? Would the pot plants be dead?
Would there be any food left in the fridge, alcohol left in the cupboard?
The car sped towards the eye of the hurricane. I could feel the back of my throat close, and I swallowed hard. My Englishman was doing a good job of reaching home, despite feeling tired. I’d volunteered to drive the last leg, but he’d stoically continued.
By the time we reached the carpark, I was in full fight or flight mode.
Did I really want to go in?
Son greeted me at the door.
‘Hello’ he said cheerily. His eyes were ringed with black, his face sallow. He appeared to have grown at least a foot and dropped half a stone over the past two days. I cautiously looked around for evidence of a verboten house party, or girls, or drink, or both..
Nothing. Even Sherlock Holmes would have been challenged. The PS3 was still blinking. I wonder how long it had been off for over the past 48 hours.
‘Hi. How’s things?’
‘We don’t have much milk’
Food is uppermost with this teenager.
Dark Princess appeared smiling. I hugged her, whilst surreptiously frisking her pockets for chocolate wrappers or midnight feast detritus.
Nothing.
There must be something wrong around here, beyond running out of milk!
I wandered upstairs. Our bedroom door was still closed, and there was no evidence anyone had been in there whilst we’d been away. The bathroom was in order. The dishes were put away. The floor had recently been vacuumed.
‘Any messages, or phone calls?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ I sniffed with faint disappointment. What was wrong? Where was it? Where was this chaos that always ensued when you left teenagers at home, alone? Where?
‘Would you like a cup of tea honey?’ I asked my Englishman as I opened the fridge to check the milk levels.
It smelt as if a body had been decapitated and stored in clingfilm in the fridge, and was breeding a colony of maggots ready to burst out of their shells into full blown flies!
‘I found it!’
£30 worth of meat spoilt in the fridge. Even the dog was gagging. Someone had left the fridge door open, quite possibly as they hung off the door willing a large apple pie and ice cream to magically appear on the shelves, then absent-mindedly wandered off to kill baddies on the PS3.
There hadn’t been a house party. No midnight feasts or trials of the alcohol cupboard. The only thing the kids had done wrong whilst we’d been away, was the spoiling of a week’s worth of meat.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and reminded myself of how wonderful it had been swimming and sitting in the spa pool together. Of not having to think of feeding anyone, of spending time just sleeping in and reading and chatting. Of dressing up for my husband and going out to dinner. Of feeling in love and carefree. How wonderful it had felt to be us, not Mum and Dad, just us.
As much as I hate the end of the holiday, and the wreckage that lay behind the teens’ first holiday at home alone, I figure it was worth it.
Don’t you?
