The new tenant & the traitor

Well you know how I said that the mere mention of the landlord taking a prospective new tenant around my house set me blubbering (in the school playground of all places), well it didn't turn out to be as traumatic as anticipated - for my husband. For days I'd been vaguely planning to flee the house before the loathsome person arrived to poke around, but by 8 pm last night I was too exhausted to go anywhere other than to bed. Which by the way I had made in honour of our 'guest'.
My 3.5 year old son is still in nappies. The kindergarden staff say we shouldn't pressure him into using the toilet. His two buddies aren't toilet-trained either. Still, my son is self-aware enough never to poop in the kindergarden - 'I don't want my friends to smell it' - and he often informs me that he's about to poop in his nappy - he knows I like advance notice of everything, including nappy changes. Except last night no notice was given. He waited until the landlord was showing the prospective tenant around in the garden and then went for it. Big time.
So when the doorbell rang, my husband was changing the nappy, and I had to open the door and scowl at the interloper and the landlord. So much for making myself scarce. I was all smiles and explanations about the unpleasant aroma, wishing I'd burnt the dinner as it might have masked it somewhat. Or that they'd call the whole charade off. Alas, no. The man turned out to be French, and very pleasant and the father of three kids too, with much nappy experience himself, so I had to let him in to browse. Once the nappy was in the trash outside, my husband welcomed the guest and proceeded to spend the next hour showing the man around, as if it was his own house. Traitor! Meanwhile I was stuck with the kids, past bedtime, wishing it was mine, watching poor Gordon Brown and his wife Sarah (in an ill-fitting dress) being chucked out of their house. At least I don't have to traipse off to the Queen to tell her we're moving, I suppose.
Once the tour had proceeded to the basement I herded the kids upto bed. One ended under a bed but that was really the kind of day I was having. It was time for a glass of red, something I was sure the French man would have appreciated. Finally, my husband returned to say that he was off for a drive with the French man who happened to be the new MD of a certain German luxury car company, of which my husband has long been a fan and customer (only second-hand mind). Traitor extraordinnaire! Yes, I used to speak French, but alas non plus.
So the whole point is I survived. I didn't cry. Plus ├ža change. And my husband got to test drive a new car.


Irish Mammy said...

So much turmoil and I guess the kids are feeling the stress levels too. The last time I moved I was 6 months pregnant with an 18 month old, the time before that I moved with a 3 month old. So they weren't big enough to understand but I guess yours are. We have rented a house here and I said to my husband the other night I can't stand the thought of moving so we can please stay one more year. I calculated I have moved house like 20 + times in my life. The glass of wine was so well deserved x

Irish Nomad said...

A belated thank you, IM :)