The mother is staying with us for a few days now that the MIL is gone on her annual trip to her daughter's home in the hills. It all started quite innocently. The brat was at Nana's house for the day while Mamma was blogging furiously at the office under the guise of catching up with her deadlines. When it was evening and time to return to the nest, major meltdown happened. "Dont wanna go home, dont wanna leave Nana House. Dont wanna, dont wanna, dont wanna." This accompanied by copious streams of tears, a face crumpled like paper and well aimed kicks at Cruella de Vil Mamma's shin, as she attempted to drag him kicking and squealing down the lift into the car. I knew then that I could never be cut out for a life of crime, I would be the kind of kidnapper who would throw her hands up while dragging a gunny bag full struggling victim and just throw it where it would roll down conveniently.
The mother's eyes filled with tears. "Let him stay," she pleaded. I couldnt. His slew of medicines were at home. What can I say, I get my bleeding heart from her. Therefore Nana pursed her lips, packed up her essentials and came with us, freshly powdered and with her clutch purse tucked under her arm.
Nana staying over is a rare occurence. For one, the MIL is around and they get along like a house on fire and a hose of water. The last time they were together under one roof during phase when the brat was born, the ill feeling took many years to sort out and be swept under the carpet. It is only now, four years down the line that they can be in a room together and not be plotting bloody murder. For another, the husband is strained and awkward in the presence of his MIL. Not that she interferes any in his routine. But he feels compelled to be on his best behaviour. Translate that into no farting and burping or belching whenever the urge strikes. With the result that he confines himself to his room emerging only to eat at the dinner table like them convicts let out into the dining hall.
With Nana around, I have been on total holiday. The brat is fully taken care of. He even sleeps peacefully his arms wrapped around his Nana, and doesnt once ask for Mamma. Felt heartbroken the first night it happened, but am sure the husband is doing the war dance of victory complete with tribal drums circling the skinned buffalo on the skewer in his mind.
Today the brat has gone into therapy with his Nana. I am in the office working. Life is good. I even had time enough to myself last evening to apply some bleach on my face, secure in the knowledge that the brat would be fed, and changed and not need to come near me and my bleach for any reason. The glow on my face is partly due to a good night's sleep and Jolen. And of course, Nana. God bless all Nanas in the world.