'I Want to be a Widow:' More Summer Musings

I was picking my husband up from the train station the other day. It was dark, freezing cold (England-style) and the train was very late. Like forty minutes late. Three kids in back seat, all fighting to see out of two misted-over car windows is the perfect freak-out, big-needle-injection for a tired mum.

The nearest I could park to the main doors was about 200 yards away. And when it started drizzling (Bristol style), I couldn’t help allowing a low groan to escape my throat. Pretty soon every guy who came out of the train station looked like, ‘Daddy’ through the mist. And for a moment I was tempted to bring one of them home, just to get away from the diesel-run trap I’d found myself in. (I do love my family. Honest!)

At one point a tall man walked out of the train station wearing a dark suit and what looked like a pink shirt – the same outfit ‘Daddy’ had left home wearing that morning. He looked around expectantly and began walking towards the short-stay car park where we were parked.

‘There’s Daddy! There’s Daddy!’ my son bellowed. I wound down the window and was prepared to call out to the man when I noticed that he was balding, and had already had what looked like the introduction course to a beer belly.
‘That’s not Daddy, son’ I said. ‘But he looks like he’s looking for someone.’
‘Who’s he looking for, Mummy?’ my little one said.
You know when I tell you this that she’s still young enough to believe that I actually have a brain and not only know stuff, but know all the stuff about everyone’s stuff. My older daughter will soon set her straight. She is wise enough to understand that Mothers – especially her mother – know nothing at all.

Anyway, back to the pink shirt wearing man; ‘He’s probably waiting for his wife and children to pick him up,’ I answered.
‘He might not be married, Mum,’ my oldest chimed in. (See, what did I tell you?)
‘That’s true. He could just be waiting for his mum or his girlfriend... or a taxi.’ I replied.
‘When I get older,’ my son, Gabs said, ‘I want to be a widow.’
‘A widow?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, I’m never getting married. Girls are yucky.’
‘Don’t you mean a bachelor, son?’

So, I like, spent the next ten minutes explaining the difference between a widow, a widower, a bachelor and a spinster. It took my son a long time to realise that since he was neither a woman nor married, being a widow would be an extremely difficult scenario for him to find himself in. Meanwhile, he’s got to live down the girls calling him Mr. Widow for probably the rest of his life. His dad (who actually came out of the train station twenty minute later) is already planning to include this little faux pas in his son’s wedding speech. Uh, huh, we just had to tell him about it on the way home.

And you know what? I suspect that the girls did not know what a widow was before Gabs asked that question. But we girls, eh, we know how to pretend we know stuff.