have to be.
‘Being away from you is so hard,’ I say.
‘I know,’ says Marc. ‘And it doesn’t get any easier.’
Sammy begins to fidget, and I start rocking him back and forth until he’s still.
‘I gues s, even if I don’t see you today, at least we’ll have Christmas day,’ I say. ‘I know it’s probably not your usual Christmas, hanging out in some small cottage in a middle-of-nowhere village.’
‘As long as I’m with you, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.’
18
When I leave my bedroom, I hear Dad snoring and am happy that he’s fallen back to sleep. Better that than he comes downstairs and gets in my way while I’m trying to clean.
‘Come on Sammy,’ I say, creaking down the staircase. ‘Let’s get you some milk.’
Down in the kitchen, I find the formula milk tub is dry and crusty and full of lumps. I see a bottle in the sink that I guess Dad must rewash every morning.
P utting Sammy in his high chair, I give the bottle a really good scrub and then sterilise it in a pan of boiling water. I flick the kettle on.
‘It’s a wonder you haven’t been ill,’ I mutter, running the bottle under the cold tap to cool it down, and then mashing up formula milk into warm water from the kettle. ‘But … Dad’s just not cut out for this sort of thing.’
How could Genoveva leave Dad alone with Sammy like this? She must realise he doesn’t know up from down when it comes to childcare.
I scoop Sammy from the chair, noticing his bottom is now stuck with crumbs , and lay him in my arms to drink his milk. Then I go looking for a diaper, because he’s soaked through.
In Sammy’s room, there are only empty diaper wrappers, but I find a creased up, grey diaper stuffed under his pram and change him.
After I’ve brus hed my teeth with no toothpaste and washed my face with no soap, I decide the first thing Sammy and I need to do is head to the shops.
Sammy has no clean clothes, so I dress him in a baby ski suit with ketchup stains on it, sit him in his pram and head out to the convenience store to buy supplies.
*****
Half an hour later, I’m back home with a plastic bag of essentials: baked beans, sliced bread, tea and eggs for Dad’s breakfast, milk, formula, diapers, baby food and wet wipes for Sammy. I also buy bin bags, toilet roll, washing-up liquid, soap and toothpaste.
I wipe Sammy’s chair down, then settle him in there with a rattle and some baby porridge.
When I’ve fed him, I make myself a hot cup of tea and set to work.
The more washing and cleaning I do, the more jobs I seem to find. Washing the plates, for example, makes me realise how dirty the draining rack is, so I have to stop to scrub it all over. And when I take the bins out, I realise Dad can’t have put the wheelie bin on the curb since Genoveva left, so I have to haul the green bin, along with sacks of rubbish, down the front path and onto the pavement.
I wash two loads of Sammy’s clothes before I can even start on Dad’s laundry, and by ten o’clock I’m sweaty, dirty and my hair is standing up all over the place. But the house is looking much better, and I feel good.
The living room is clean enough for Sammy to crawl around, and he’s having great fun trying to pull himself up on the sofa, and chewing the toys that I’ve washed and dried for him.
I hear Dad creaking around upstairs and set to work on breakfast for both of us – baked beans on toast with a fried egg on top.
When Dad comes downstairs, his eyes light up at the clean house and the breakfast on the table.
‘It’s good to have you home love,’ he says, his words full of emotion. ‘I haven’t been coping. Well, I suppose that’s pretty obvious.’ He takes a seat at the dining table.
‘It’s okay Dad. You haven’t had an easy time.’
‘You’re the best daughter a dad could hope for. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I should have visited sooner.’
Dad sits at the table. ‘This looks great,
‘Being away from you is so hard,’ I say.
‘I know,’ says Marc. ‘And it doesn’t get any easier.’
Sammy begins to fidget, and I start rocking him back and forth until he’s still.
‘I gues s, even if I don’t see you today, at least we’ll have Christmas day,’ I say. ‘I know it’s probably not your usual Christmas, hanging out in some small cottage in a middle-of-nowhere village.’
‘As long as I’m with you, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.’
18
When I leave my bedroom, I hear Dad snoring and am happy that he’s fallen back to sleep. Better that than he comes downstairs and gets in my way while I’m trying to clean.
‘Come on Sammy,’ I say, creaking down the staircase. ‘Let’s get you some milk.’
Down in the kitchen, I find the formula milk tub is dry and crusty and full of lumps. I see a bottle in the sink that I guess Dad must rewash every morning.
P utting Sammy in his high chair, I give the bottle a really good scrub and then sterilise it in a pan of boiling water. I flick the kettle on.
‘It’s a wonder you haven’t been ill,’ I mutter, running the bottle under the cold tap to cool it down, and then mashing up formula milk into warm water from the kettle. ‘But … Dad’s just not cut out for this sort of thing.’
How could Genoveva leave Dad alone with Sammy like this? She must realise he doesn’t know up from down when it comes to childcare.
I scoop Sammy from the chair, noticing his bottom is now stuck with crumbs , and lay him in my arms to drink his milk. Then I go looking for a diaper, because he’s soaked through.
In Sammy’s room, there are only empty diaper wrappers, but I find a creased up, grey diaper stuffed under his pram and change him.
After I’ve brus hed my teeth with no toothpaste and washed my face with no soap, I decide the first thing Sammy and I need to do is head to the shops.
Sammy has no clean clothes, so I dress him in a baby ski suit with ketchup stains on it, sit him in his pram and head out to the convenience store to buy supplies.
*****
Half an hour later, I’m back home with a plastic bag of essentials: baked beans, sliced bread, tea and eggs for Dad’s breakfast, milk, formula, diapers, baby food and wet wipes for Sammy. I also buy bin bags, toilet roll, washing-up liquid, soap and toothpaste.
I wipe Sammy’s chair down, then settle him in there with a rattle and some baby porridge.
When I’ve fed him, I make myself a hot cup of tea and set to work.
The more washing and cleaning I do, the more jobs I seem to find. Washing the plates, for example, makes me realise how dirty the draining rack is, so I have to stop to scrub it all over. And when I take the bins out, I realise Dad can’t have put the wheelie bin on the curb since Genoveva left, so I have to haul the green bin, along with sacks of rubbish, down the front path and onto the pavement.
I wash two loads of Sammy’s clothes before I can even start on Dad’s laundry, and by ten o’clock I’m sweaty, dirty and my hair is standing up all over the place. But the house is looking much better, and I feel good.
The living room is clean enough for Sammy to crawl around, and he’s having great fun trying to pull himself up on the sofa, and chewing the toys that I’ve washed and dried for him.
I hear Dad creaking around upstairs and set to work on breakfast for both of us – baked beans on toast with a fried egg on top.
When Dad comes downstairs, his eyes light up at the clean house and the breakfast on the table.
‘It’s good to have you home love,’ he says, his words full of emotion. ‘I haven’t been coping. Well, I suppose that’s pretty obvious.’ He takes a seat at the dining table.
‘It’s okay Dad. You haven’t had an easy time.’
‘You’re the best daughter a dad could hope for. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I should have visited sooner.’
Dad sits at the table. ‘This looks great,
Similar Books
