On Keeping Yourself Occupied...

Which is what they tell you to do in Times of Worry, isn't it? And what better way to do that than to immerse yourself in Family Life?
Well, actually, I can think of one. Instead of taking your 8-year-old to a Dr Who Trading Card convention at the local city library, with his 8-year-old mate, Teenage Toddler and a few other 8-year-old mates thrown in when you get there, why not try drinking yourself into a coma? Far more pleasurable and infinitely less probability of inducing a stroke.

Picture the scene. It's Saturday afternoon, unseasonably warm (so unseasonable no one's yet turned their heating systems off) and there you are crammed into a corner of a glass-constructed library with 4,000 card-hungry 8-year-old boys, a smattering of strange, tic-infested men who are not there with children, and a bright red Dalek.
It's carnage. No one's allowed to touch the Dalek, which shrieks, has flashing lights and comes complete with all the egg-whisk attachments that work like spiritual magnets to young boys, plus an oddly enthusiastic, slightly wierd 'guardian' who lynches you as soon as you make eye contact. It also has a sign saying 'Do Not Touch' which might as well be written in Skaro for all the notice five excited boys take of it.
As I'm busy wishing I'd bought a choke chain to restrain Teenage Toddler, one of the 8 year olds gets barked at by Wierd Guardian.
'OI! It says don't touch!'
'No it doesn't!'
'Read the sign.'
'What sign?'
'The one that says Don't Touch.' Angry pointing. Accusing eyes in my direction. (Not his fault. He can't be expected to know which of these four 8 year olds is mine - incidentally, not the one touching the Dalek. Oh no. Mine's currently on the floor pretending he's been exterminated. I let go of TT and snap at him to get up at once. I will have control, I will, I will.)
'Oh, THAT,' says oldest son's 8-year-old mate. 'I thought that said Donut. I thought it meant you got a donut if you dared touch it.'
I raise my eyebrows at Guardian, smile weakly and shake my head.
This seems to signal to him that I'm up for hearing everything there is to know about his Dalek friend. It's from the 60s (aren't we all?), it's called Derek and it cost £1400 to make. A kit would cost three grand. His mate's got a white one called Minty. Another mate's got a grey one called Wolfgang, which he once took to an airport where it caused mayhem, ho, ho. (I am not making this up.)
I nod like one of those dogs in the back of a car, aware that two of the 8-year-olds are now chasing each other round the library. One streaks past me with the other in hot pursuit. I haul at the back of my older son's t-shirt and place my hand on his mate's head - hoping to infer physically that I am to kids what Victoria Stilwell is to dogs. I am reminded of chariot racing Ben Hur/Gladiator style.

Wierd Guardian is happily telling me how Derek et al will never depreciate in value when I see a small flash of red and white bombing through the library doors into the large, open and probably-full-of-nutters-and-paedophiles foyer. I fire instructions at the two 8 year olds and pelt after TT who is happily trotting off into the shark-infested crowds.
'Hey!' I shout. He turns and looks decidedly annoyed that I've curtailed his little adventure. 'Where are you going without telling mummy. You NEVER leave mummy.'
He pouts. 'I find Daddy. I want Daddy.'
'Well, I would've taken you. You never, ever go off like that.'
He looks at me stubbornly. 'I want Daddy.'
'Right, we'll go and find Daddy.'
'I want Daddy. I don't want you.'
'Alright! I've said we'll go and find Daddy. Just let me tell the boys where we're going.'
'But I want him now!'
I grab his hand and semi-drag him back to the Seventh Circle of Hell. Three of the boys are waiting. One of the others streams past like an escaped terrier.
'Mum! I touched the Dalek!'
'Mrs Felix's Mum, do you think it's strange there are grown-ups here without any children?'
'Daddy! I want to find Daddy', sobs TT.
'Boys, wait here. Don't touch anything. I'll be back in a minute.'
'Can we have a drink?'
One of the other boys returns, face streaked with tears. 'Someone's stolen my ultra-rare's! Where's my dad?'
'I'm hungry.'
'Let me go! I want Daddy. Not you. Dad-deeeeeee!'
'They - sob - were my - sob - only ultra-rare's! I want my dad.'
'Can we have something to eat?'
When I die, In A Minute will be engraved on my headstone.

I cheered myself up on Sunday by gardening. Before I had kids, this meant a nice, quiet day pottering about and listening to the birds whilst also being Creative and Productive. Nowadays, it's the bits I squeeze in between catering for kids, answering endless questions for kids, sorting out kids' fights, administering plasters to kids or locating dock leaves and Anthisan to put on kids' nettle stings.
Even so, I'd still suggest gardening to anyone who has Issues of any kind. If you're worried, anxious or restless, calm yourself with a bit of gentle weeding and/or a little bit of planting - a kind of yoghurt-weavery meditation in movement. If you're blocked or frustrated, dig a bloody big hole. If you're feeling snappy, pissy or PMT-y, prune and hack - there's something tremendously, destructively therapeutic about it. If you're feeling like you want a fight, tackle tying up a rose, ripping out some nettles, forking over some hardened, globally-warmed soil. And if you're a mess, like me, do all of them. Extreme Gardening is where it's at for those of us who can't afford acupuncture.

And for the last couple of days? Well, I'd love to be the Julie Andrews, spiritually-sorted type who just needs to sing about raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string to make myself feel better. But I'm a 21st century woman. Vacuous, shallow, and Western. So, naturally, I went shopping.