Honey Bunny
Lit Up — February’s Prompt: Movie Quotes
In Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction — Honey Bunny says: Any of you ****ing pricks move, and I’ll execute every mother****ing last one of you!
Days are long, motherhood is not easy. I thought it was going to be all roses and cupcakes. You know? The idea of never having to work again sounded bloody fantastic. Little did I know that I would be working harder than ever before. Be tested, have to adapt and learn. Reinvent myself, lose my identity. Hope that the old me was still alive. Wonder if someday I could feel important again.
It’s a Friday. Just an ordinary day. I have three kids under my belt. Hubby is at work and all three, under six are home with me. Alone. I’m outnumbered by my own offspring.
My hair is some kind of supernatural nest of tangles. I look like a mad scientist crossed with Martha Stewart. I want to be everything that other beautiful chef with the hourglass figure and timeless beauty is. I watch the food channel because its one of few stations that air kid-friendly programs. If I have to sit through one more Night Garden episode I swear I am going to bleep the holy sugar out of my banana cake. You know?
Tomorrow is my littlest’s first birthday. I need a pat on the back.
What time is it? Might as well be a lightyear from now until my husband gets home. I hear the clock ticking. My head is swirling with a to-do list from infinity and to the beyond, or something like that.
Cleaning kills me. I mean, if I was living in the movie Groundhog day I would get it. Every day on repeat. But my reality is doing the same thing over and over ON THE SAME DAY! How often is a person supposed to scrub a toilet? I would have thought once a week would have been more than enough times that I should be expected to get down on my knees and inspect the inside of the toilet bowl. But no. No no no no no. Every time my eldest goes. What a big girl she is now. All by herself. Skid marks everywhere. It’s like a shit storm, literally.
‘Ok, Guys, Mummy needs to clean now. You know what that means. I need all three of you to stay in one spot.’ I say.
All three faces look confused.
‘Nod if you understand.’
Only the eldest nods.
A loud sigh escapes me.
‘It’s ok Mum, I’ll keep them here on the couch with me.’
‘Great. Yes, that would be wonderful my big girl.’
And I leave the room, headed for the laundry. Filling my bucket with hot water, as hot as I can take it on my bare hands. Hotter than I can handle, really. But if it means the floor will dry quicker and maybe the hot water will kill a few more bugs then the hotter the better. I never did have nice hands. In goes the soap and then mop. I wring it out and go to the front door. Always the same route. Gliding, pushing and panting as I sweep my mop over the tiled flooring of my home. The family domain. A house of love. Picture perfect.
The weekly clean is well underway now and I’m thinking and praying internally that no one walks on my freshly mopped floor until I’m done and its dry. A single footprint will leave a mark that will do my head in for the rest of the week. Walking backward, going to and fro from the laundry, refreshing the mop after every second section, I’m going as quick as I can. My body is secreting perspiration now.
I yell out. ‘Are you all still on the couch?’
‘Yes Mum,’ my eldest replies.
Rushing, frantic to finish before one of them needs to eat or pee or get something. If anyone leaves the lounge room or steps a tippy toe off the rug where our couch resides then I’m going to blow a fuse.
Callouses have formed on my palms from this weekly chore. It’s a tough gig but I’m nearly done. I’ve made it to the home stretch. Can see the couch and all three of my blessed children, innocently watching TV while I’m pulling out chairs and sliding them back and forth to mop under the dining table. So close.
With my three beloved cherubs out of sight again, I’m on the last room now. The ensuite can be done with only a few swift strokes.
Until I hear a recognisable sound. Voices prick my ears. Music I’m familiar with is playing. It’s the closing number. Credits are rolling. NOOOOOOOO!
Bolting to the family room to confirm my worst fears.
Three sets of pure eyes focus on me.
I’m thinking. I’m Honey Bunny from that scene in Pulp Fiction. Morphed into Beast from Mother of the Year in a microsecond. Blushing and too embarrassed to smile when I realise that I’m in no man’s land. Between the kitchen bench and the couch. Standing in the middle of the family room on my wet, tiled floor, at the end of my own trail of footprints.
