I’ve Already Done My Time “You might as well put him in temporary care like a stray kitten! What’s …

Ive Done My Bit

“You might as well send him off to a kennel, like a stray kitten. Why not? Pay the fee and off he goesnobody to bother you!” snapped Mrs. Coles with a sharp sarcasm.

Mary pressed her lips together, annoyed, and tugged the zip on her suitcase. Stuck. Just like Mrs. Coles complaints, which she aired every time the young couple mentioned going on holiday.

“Mum, thats enough,” tried Andrew, Marys husband, hoping to calm her down. “Charlies on holiday too, just in a different way. Hell be staying with my in-laws in the countryside. Hell have fresh air, a big garden, a paddling pool, and proper milk every day. Its perfect for a three-year-old.”

“Thats not a holiday, thats exile!” Mrs. Coles flung up her hands in outrage. “Hes only three! At this age, he needs his parents, not to be dumped in a village while you swan off to London, wandering around museums! Dont you think he needs museums? Doesnt he deserve a bit of culture?”

Mary finally tamed the suitcase zip, stood straight, and levelled a cold look at Mrs. Coles.

“Right now, he doesnt,” she said icily. “He needs a routine, a nap, and quick access to a potty. Not a nine-hour car journey and trekking around the city. Mrs. Coles, when was the last time you even took your grandson for a walk in the park?”

“I did my bit with Andrew!” Mrs. Coles replied with pride, chin high. “Took him everywhere, didnt I? Managed just fine. You lot are just after the easy life. You should think of others for a change!”

“Exactly!” Mary snapped, her patience thinning. “Others! Like the people sat on that train or the tour groups trying to listen to the guidewhile our child screams, Im tired, I want a drink, I need the loo, when are we going home? Taking a three-year-old on holiday is not a holiday, Mrs. Coles. Its torturefor Charlie, too!”

Mrs. Coles pursed her lips and turned away.

“Alright, fine. You cant wait to be free of him. Best just say it out loudthat your sons a burden. If you cared, youd plan your holidays around him.”

Mary shut her eyes and silently counted to a hundred to keep her cool. If Mrs. Coles had any idea the kind of ordeal they went through on their last holiday, maybe shed bite her tongue. But how could she know, when she rarely did anything with her grandson?

Mary remembered every detail. Her left eye had twitched for a month after that trip.

It was the previous summer. Naively, theyd set off to visit friends cottage, barely sixty miles away. The friends had a daughter, a playground, and an enormous garden. It all sounded promising.

Naturally, it didnt go to plan.

The car broke down. The friends were waiting, barbecue already started. They ended up scrambling for train tickets.

Even the weather wasnt on their sideover thirty degrees, the train carriage stifling, the windows uselessly open. It was packed, stifling. No space, no air.

Charlie lasted ten minutes. Then the whining began. Then complaints about the heat and boredom. Then he decided to turn the carriage into a race track.

“Put me down!” he screamed, arching his back in Andrews arms. “Want to go over there!”

“Charlie, sweetheart, you cant. People are sitting there,” Andrew hissed, face red with embarrassment and effort, trying to keep hold of his wriggling son.

“I dont want to sit! Waaah!”

Charlie outdid even the rattle of the train with his yelling. The other passengers started to stare, first sympathetically, then with annoyance, finally with open hostility. Some woman in a white blouse told them off, and in a righteous fury, Charlie swung his juice pouch, dousing Andrew, Mary, and the poor woman too.

The uproar was epic. The woman screamed like Charlie. Mary repeatedly apologised, nearly in tears, trying to hand out a tenner as compensation. Charlie bawled even more because hed lost his juice. Andrew was grinding his teeth.

Ninety minutes in hell.

When they finally stumbled onto the platform, their energy was utterly spent. Charlie refused his nap after all that stress, was cranky for the rest of the day, and nearly toppled the barbecue. The journey back was no better.

And that was just ninety minutes each way. And Mrs. Coles wanted Charlie dragged around museums for a full week? Not a chance.

“You just dont discipline him!” Mrs. Coles liked to conclude any argument.

But Mrs. Coles herself was more theory than practice. Shed visit every fortnight, bring bananas or chocolates (which Charlie was allergic to, and theyd told her time and again), dote on him for twenty minutes, and leave. Occasionally, shed snap a pic for Facebook.

“Mrs. Coles, whats it matter to you who looks after Charlie?” Mary had asked once during another argument. “Its not like hes with you.”

“Im not obliged! Hes got parentsthey should look after him. If there was a real needa hospital trip, a crisisId help. But this? Youre pushing him off like a spare cat, just cant wait to get rid!”

These disagreements wore thin, chipping away at the nerves. Mrs. Coles was adamant she knew best, refusing to hear any logic from the younger generation.

Life, of course, teaches best.

Four years passed in a blink. Charlie turned seven, a proper little boychattering away, going to school, joining clubs.

Life changed for Mrs. Coles tooher husband passed away. Where her flat was once filled with the telly and her husbands muttering, it was now quiet. Perhaps to fill the silence, or to convince herself she was still energetic, Mrs. Coles offered a grand gesture.

“Bring Charlie to me,” she announced magnanimously. “Hes not a baby anymorewell get along splendidly.”

“Are you sure?” Mary asked gently. “Charlies livelyneeds entertaining or at least a computer.”

“Dont teach your grandmother to suck eggs!” Mrs. Coles scoffed. “I raised Andrew, didnt I? Well read books, play bingo, have fun without all your gadgets. Bring him.”

With hearts in their mouths and fingers crossed, they took Charlie round. For a full two weeks. Then headed off for a weekend at a holiday park, not expecting their free time to last.

Marys instincts were spot-on.

Mrs. Coles had pictured a serene scene: Charlie, tidy and angelic, poring over a wildlife encyclopedia while she knitted socks, occasionally offering wise remarks. Then theyd have soup and go on charming strolls holding hands.

That fragile fantasy shattered within half an hour of the parents departure.

“Gran, Im bored!” Charlie announced. “Have you got a tablet?”

“No, love, I havent.”

“Lets play zombie apocalypse, then! You be the zombie!”

“What on earths an apocalypse? Charlie, come and do some colouringI bought you a nice picture book.”

“I dont want to! Thats for babies!” He began running laps round the sofa. “Go on, Gran! Dont just sit there! Look at me! LOOK!”

He didnt sit still for a second. Pretending to be an aeroplane, clattering saucepan lids, dragging his gran into unfamiliar games. He wanted an audience, a playmate, and a personal entertainer in one. Every three minutes: “Gran, why does?” “Gran, can we?” “Gran, look!”

By lunchtime, Mrs. Coles felt as though shed shifted a delivery van of coal.

But that was just the beginning. The real challenge arrived at lunch.

She proudly served beef stewa dish she normally avoided, making an effort for her grandson.

Charlie peered into the bowl as if it were bin juice and wrinkled his nose.

“Im not eating that.”

“Why ever not?”

“Its got onions. I dont like cooked onions.”

“Rubbish,” huffed Gran. “Theyre good for you! Eat up now.”

“Im not having it!”

“Well, what do you want?”

“Just pasta. With cheese. And a sausage. But youve got to cut the sausage like an octopus.”

Mrs. Coles raised her eyebrows. She had no idea how to do that.

“This isnt a restaurant!” she scolded.

Charlie shrugged and wandered off to build a den out of cushions, chairs, and the lampshade.

By evening, Mrs. Coles blood pressure swung like a yo-yo. She couldnt restCharlie would bounce on her, yelling, “Get up! The enemys coming!” She couldnt watch the newsCharlie insisted on cartoons, because “Im bored!” And cartoons did not calm him. He tore around the room even faster.

Meanwhile, Andrew and Mary enjoyed their peaceful evening on the cabin veranda, watching the sunset and listening to the gentle sizzle of coals.

“Just listen to that silence,” Mary said, eyes closed in bliss. “Hard to believe. Maybe we were too harsh on your mum?”

At that precise moment, Andrews phone rang.

“Hello, Mum?”

“Get back here immediately!” Mrs. Coles barked. “Take him away! Right now!”

“Mum, whats happened? Is everything alright?”

“Its a nightmare! Your son is impossible! Hes trashed half my flat! Wont eat real food! He jumps on me like Im a trampoline! Im having heart palpitations! If youre not here within the hour, Im ringing 111 and the police. I cant take it any more! Thats itIm waiting!”

The call cut off.

Mary silently set down her wine. The bottle was untouched, barbecue only half-cooked.

“Best get packing,” Andrew said grimly. “So much for our break”

They drove back without a word. It stung bitterly; Mrs. Coles herself had insisted, and now she was in hysterics.

Theyd barely rang the bell when the door flew open. Mrs. Coles, ghost-pale and smelling of camphor, looked as if shed survived a war.

Charlie bounded into the hall bright and cheerful.

“Thank goodness youre here,” Mrs. Coles exclaimed, all but pushing Charlie at them. “Take him! And dont ever ask me again! What on earth have you raised? He moans about onions, gets bored, jumps on me like a wild thing!”

“Hes just a child, Mum,” Andrew replied dryly, taking Charlies hand. “An active, healthy boy. We did warn you. You insisted.”

“I thought he was normal! Hes a nightmare! That boy needs a doctor,” Mrs. Coles panted, clutching her chest. “Just go. I need a lie down or Ill wind up in hospital.”

In the car, Charlie snuggled up in the back and asked, “Mum, are we going to Grandpa John and Grandma Lindas soon?”

“Yes, love, we will.”

“Good,” he mumbled sleepily. “Granny Coles shes a bit odd. Always shouting, doesnt know how to play. And her foods horrible.”

From that night, Mrs. Coles never mentioned holidays together or asked why theyd left Charlie out. Now, whenever they headed off, she merely wished them a happy journey.

Charlie spent every holiday with Marys parents insteaddigging for worms with Grandpa, playing pirates, and devouring Grandma Lindas souponion-free, as she cared about his likes and dislikes.

Things with Mrs. Coles never truly improved, but Mary was content. No one tried to dictate her life anymore. Mrs. Coles was left with her own firm opinions and untouched encyclopaediasno use to anyone.

And so, life taught everyone that when it comes to raising children, experience is sometimes the most humbling teacherand more valuable than all the theories in the world.