My wife has just suggested that we visit our youngest daughter again this coming weekend. The reason: apparently she doesn’t have a full-length mirror in her new student accommodation and we need to take her ours.
If we do it will be the seventh time in as many weeks that we have made the trip to York. This, to my mind, seems a little excessive.
It is a little odd to me that such a fuss should be made over a piece of reflective glass but the girls in our family all share a certain attraction to such.
When they were younger I managed to buy a particularly large mirror for our hallway. It was both tall and wide and became something of a peacemaker in a family at war with each other over hairbrushes, clothes, and toys.
Before the acquisition of this new piece of wall furniture we would regularly see our daughters tussling with each other as to who could see their own reflection before they left for a full day at school.
I tended to think that it wouldn’t be quite the same in a house full of lads but other parents have told me that in today’s visual world boys are feeling a similar pressure to conform.
It was different in my day; as a boy I cant ever remember ever carrying a comb with me. Preferring to take my chances with the world looking like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards. A charge my mother would often level at me.
I can’t remember ever trying to climb through a hedge, let alone doing so backwards, but my parents seemed to think it was one of my chosen hobbies.
I was also accused of trying to find all the muddy puddles in the village and rolling in it; granted I did tend to return home from the park in a sorry state.
Perhaps this is why, to this day, I still aim for the large and deep puddles on the road when driving my car. Most men do it. There is something deeply satisfying about driving through water and risking your engine cutting out part way through.
I need to point out that, however tempting it might be, I resist doing so when there is a pedestrian nearby. Honest!
I think that much of our childhood experience is carried into adult life and absorbed as normal behaviour.
I still do not carry a comb with me and see little point in spending ages looking into a mirror before I leave the house.
Mr s M would say that this shows; she often takes an upward glance towards my hairline and holds back a ‘tut’ at how bad my hair looks.
If she feels in a kindly mood she will retrieve her brush from the mysterious compartments of her handbag and tidy me up. Even she is in a rush then she will ask simply ask whether I have ‘looked in the mirror this morning’.
After this weekend it would mean a trip to York to do so.
Full Length Mirror
Competitive Girls
I had the pleasure of being on Radio 4’s Womans Hour last week in order to talk about my favourite complaint; too many women in a house with only one bathroom.
The subject turned towards the competitiveness difference between male and female offspring.
Another guest, who had a house full of boys, told of how they turn even the simplest of tasks into a measure of who is the best.
I can’t say that the Molineaux females have ever been that competitive; preferring to gang together to discuss nails, makeup, clothes, and TV.
There are, however, odd occasions where they are quite happy to move in to fight mode. The one that springs to mind is when we organised family Easter Egg hunts for them when they were children.
As parents we tried to set the rules of the game such that each of the four girls would end up with an equal amount of chocolate.
Our intentions were rarely realised as the girls dashed around the house fighting their way towards their Easter reward.
Our girls are now grown up, with the youngest approaching nineteen, so such events are part of our collective folklore. Last year however we managed to perform a minor miracle and get all the girls, plus husbands, together for the Easter break.
The conversation soon turned to recollections of the fun they had all had during their earlier years, when my Mrs Molineaux’s eldest suggested they organised one now.
What you need to understand is that when she suggested that ‘they’ organised it what she actually meant was that I did it. The collective shout of ‘Daaaaaaaad!’ drew me from the kitchen to hear about their plans.
I dashed to the supermarket to see if there were any Easter eggs left at such short notice and managed to collect together enough items to make it a true competition.
As in earlier years the family were sent out for thirty minutes so that I could run around the house like a mad man with handfuls of melting chocolate.
When they returned I explained the rules not least so that our new son-in-laws could join in too. They looked slightly bemused and for a moment I worried about their safety but I figured they were old enough to deal with what ever trauma might come their way through this new experience.
I signalled the start of the race and too our amazement, and parental delight, the girls reverted to young children again and assumed their earlier roles. Daughter number one screamed her way from room to room. Daughter number two failed to see even the most obvious of hidden treasure. Offspring number three quietly collected a hoard of quality chocolate, and Mrs Molineaux’s youngest happily took chocolate from her sister’s collections.
It was like going back in time except that is for the presence of two rather bemused lads who didn’t quite know what had hit them.
Are males more competitive than females; probably yes but not when it comes to Easter egg hunts.
Empty House
Sunday was a very strange day; it was almost as if time stood still. I am not referring here to the end of the Manchester derby where the ref seemed to be set on confirming that time is indeed relative. Seeing that my allegiances are of a red hue I was more than happy with the result.
The slowing of time that I refer to was when we dropped our youngest daughter off at her new student home in York.
She is technically an adult so one might wonder what the fuss is all about but there we were with all the other worried looking parents, letting our offspring fly.
Time stood still as we watched and waited for the right time to leave and return home.
It was obvious that all but a few of the new university students were more than keen for their parents to depart; I believe the announcement that there was live music and cheap alcohol available in the student bar drove this wish to be left alone.
My wife did what mums do and fussed her way around our daughter’s new room. I did what dads do and made sure her TV was tuned in correctly.
It was clear, however, that we could stall no longer; we were no longer required and so Mrs M stopped fluffing the pillows and I put the remote control down and we prepared to head back to our quiet and daughter free home.
I had made the ultimate sacrifice of missing the football in order to deliver our precious package to York and so on the way home I was quick to switch the radio. I managed to catch the last and controversial five minutes and twenty-seven seconds of the match.
Judging by the tone of several text messages my many Man City supporting g friends did not share my delight in the result.
Still celebrating this Mrs M and I began to reminisce on our twenty-five years of having children in our home.
It was at this point that time started to speed up as we asked the question that all parents of a certain age ask at times like this; ‘where has all the time gone?’
The paradox of time is that in the same moment of reflection the birth of our youngest daughter seemed like only yesterday and many years ago all mixed together.
We arrived home to a house that still had all the signs of having had a teenager manically filling suitcases with essential items of clothes.
We enjoyed having the freedom of being able to choose any programme on the TV and waiting for a text message from daughter number four assuring us that all was ok.
When the message finally arrived we eagerly looked to see how our precious girl was coping without us.
It read: going 2 club, can U bring my coat phone charger and extra money on Tuesday night.
We should have been annoyed at having to make the trip to York again but felt comforted that we were still needed.
