Power Cut

It was the second day of the school holidays and everything was ticking along just nicely – the youngest was on the ipad, the oldest watching tele in his pjs and Missy in her room drawing pictures - so I thought I’d boil the jug and sit down to read the paper. Then it all came to a stand-still.

“Mum, I was just sitting in my room and the light went out by itself and I didn’t even touch it!” Miss Six called, running up the stairs wide-eyed.

“Oh that’s alright, the bulb will have blown. I’ll fix it later,” I replied.

Then I realised the tv had gone silent and the jug had stopped boiling.

Master Nine had finally got off his butt and was inspecting the back of the tele.

“Get out from there,” I told him. “It’s a power cut.”

“A what?”

“It’s when they turn off the power so they can work on the lines.”

I vaguely remembered mum telling me that nana, up the road, had received something in the mail informing her of it. Where was mine? Come to think of it, my Trade Me purchase from two weeks ago hadn’t arrived, which I’d put down to being stolen from the box so maybe they’d swiped the lot that day.

I went to ring mum for more dets, only to find the phone didn’t work. I text her instead.

“I think it said until 3.30?” came the reply.

3.30! But it was only 9.15am!

At least it got Master Nine off his butt and downstairs to get dressed.

“Oh what!” I heard him cry. “My light doesn’t even work!”

“Of course it doesn’t. Even my computer won’t go once it runs out of battery.”

“Well my ipad still works,” quipped Master Six smugly from his nook on the couch.

“This is ridiculous,” I heard Master Nine mutter as he disappeared into his room.

Well I could see it was going to be a long day. There was nothing for it but to pour myself a luke-warm cup of Black Forest coffee from the half-boiled jug and consult my holiday activities list.

Master Sixes smugness soon dissolved as the ipad went flat, as did my mobile phone and laptop, and he realised he couldn’t just plug it into the charger.

But as it turns out I didn’t need to provide entertainment. Once they got over the shock of it all, they busied themselves: Miss Six, ever creative, just delved further into her crafts cupboard, filling a discarded diet coke bottle with water and coloured beads and glitter, while the boys disappeared downstairs to make block villages.

While they were occupied, I tried not to think about the freezer food slowly defrosting, or the washing which was halfway through its cycle, now left to soak all day, instead of fluttering in the stiff breeze.

I tried not to think about the fact we couldn’t go anywhere by car because, as I later discovered, it was trapped on the other side of the garage door, which I assumed only opened by power.

Instead I got stuck into my chores … until I got to the vacuuming, which required power. So I went to wash the car instead – a job that I’d been meaning to do for months … but I couldn’t get it out of the garage (I’ve since been told I could have simply pulled a string to activate the door).

Ah well, a nice day free of technology and chores.

Later, we took a walk in the sunshine … to get some dvds … until I remembered the tele wasn’t working.

Nevermind, we got some much-needed vitamin D and I returned to find a thermos of hot water on my doorstep from a kind friend unaffected by the power predicament.

Our day of back-to-basics provided some exercise, creative and imaginative play, a lovely ignorant detachment from the outside world, thanks to no social media, and true real-life (as opposed cyber) good turns.

I was just getting used to living in the stone age when, at 2.40pm, the house crackled back to life – the tv blared, the jug re-boiled, the fridge hummed and all the lights blazed. Our five hour, 20 minute lapse from technology had ended. 
A little regretfully, I plugged the lifeless technology back into the mains to recharge our normal life.

Meanest Mummy in the World

The eternal cycle of work, chores and raising kids continues. Talk to any working mother and they will probably tell you about the constant struggle to find the right balance.

In a bid to simultaneously alleviate the load and teach a lesson about work ethics, I recently drew up a chores roster. There was pocket money involved. If they want something, apart from birthdays and Christmas, they can now earn it. The chores involved lawns (with a push mower), weeding, picking up leaves, dishes and lunches.

The first week started with great enthusiasm, as most things do. But two weeks in and Master Six had dropped out. After some fruitless persuasion I decided to let it go.

Master Nine, keen to make a buck, was quick off the mark: “So does this mean there’s spare money to be earned?” he asked. As a result, drying the dishes has been split between him and his sister.

So far Master Six has no idea about the value of money, or work.

“No one will want to marry you if you’re lazy,” I tried.

“I’m not getting married!” he declared. “Anyway, when I’m an adult, I’m living with you.”

This was news to me.

“But I’m not having an adult lazy sloth living with me! Plus, you’ll have to share a room with your sister because she already said she wants to stay living at home.” Miss Six has also declared her intention of remaining celibate and had already agreed to the terms.

“Yeah ‘cos I’m gonna play with my girl toys and pack them all away tidily,” she chimed in. “You know those toys I packed in my bag?” she added, referring to a bag of toys I found stashed in her cupboard ready for when she lives with me as an adult, which I have subsequently redistributed  obviously unnoticed by her.

“And also you’ll have to pay me money,” I continued. “When you’re an adult, you have to pay to live somewhere.”

“What?!” A shocked pause, then: “Ok, I’ll give you my $20,” he said, running off to his room.

“I don’t want your money now,” I called after him.

“Then I’ll give you my other money,” he said, coming back and handing me 20 cents.

“Why have you given me 20 cents now?” I asked.

“So then I don’t have to pay you when I’m an adult.”

“Yes you will.”

His mouth dropped open and he gaped at me like I was the meanest mummy in the world. 

Snatching back his 20 cents, he backed away, looking at me with hurt in his eyes.

 “You’re not my mummy anymore! I’m not living with you anymore!”

“Guess you’ll have to find a hard-working wife then.”

There’s no way I’m letting that happen. These holidays I’m taking the three of them into town so the other two can spend some of their earned money with the aim that Master Six will see the benefits and re-join the work force. 

Yes there will be ‘Mean Mummy Syndrome’ guilt pangs but I will make a hard worker out of Master Six yet. 

And FYI, he’d forgiven me the next day and I’m back to being his ‘favouritest Mummy in the world’ … until the impending shopping trip no doubt.