Day in the life of a Scottish trad wife

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previously:

day in the life of a trad wife or whatever

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Day in the life of a Scottish trad wife.

I try my best to uphold the traditions of the women who came before me. I am, of course, a housewife and mother to my six children. Or, as we call them, the weans. There’s Margaret Mary, Margaret Claire, Margaret Ann, Margaret Marie, Margaret Patricia and two week old Midori, who was named after my biggest pregnancy craving.

Before my husband—Big John they call him—leaves for work, I always serve a proper, hearty breakfast. Today I decide to make a big pot of porridge. Big John says he wants bacon. ‘Get tae fuck,’ I reply, spooning porridge into his bowl. ‘You’ll eat what I make you and you’ll bloody well like it.’

After breakfast, I send the weans out to play. ‘Take the baby out with you. And don’t come back till dinner time,’ I tell them. ‘But it’s raining! What about lunch?’ ‘Och, I’ll lunch ye alright!’ I reply even though no one who has ever said that sentence, or any variation thereof, knows what it means.

I light a cigarette and text all the neighbours asking them to drop round their contributions to the menage (a kind of communal savings pot) but no one complies because ‘it’s not the 1950s’ and ‘we have bank accounts now.’

For dinner I decide to make soup. I cut some carrots and potatoes and leeks into big chunks and put them in water to boil. Fuck it, I’ll even fling in some stock tonight.

Big John comes home and leaves his boots in the middle of the floor as usual. He’s a fucking arsehole is Big John. I lovingly request that he ‘Get they boots out ma kitchen and wash your fucking hands before dinner. You’re fucking maukit (very dirty).’ He obliges.

I open the door and don’t see the weans anywhere. So I shout into the street—never crossing the threshold no matter how far away I think the weans might be—‘Margaret Mary! Margaret Claire! Margaret Ann! Margaret Marie! Margaret Patricia! Yer tea’s oot! And bring the baby!’ I hear nothing in response so again I shout ‘Margaret Mary! Margaret Claire! Margaret Ann! Margaret Marie! Margaret Patricia! Don’t make me send your father out for you!’ Still I hear nothing so I send Big John out to round them up.

He comes back somehow dragging all six weans by the ear at the same time.

Once the weans are in bed, Big John is after some quality time. He suggests we might want to have another baby. ‘Away and raffle yer doughnut!’ I reply. And then, just for good measure, ‘Get tae fuck.’