We had barely opened our eyes as our three-year-old son came running into our bedroom at 6.15am last Sunday, fully dressed in shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses, shouting, “Can we get the paddling pool out today?” My husband and I let out a simultaneous groan, with memories of last year’s battle upon us.
After another fifteen requests and now three completely over excited small children squeling, my husband drags himself off to the shed, known as the ‘black hole’ due to it being crammed full of everything that does not have an obvious home. This includes old pushchairs, a virtually unused baby walker, two lawnmowers, both new and old deckchairs now covered in cobwebs and numerous garden tools crying out to be used more regularly. Eventually he drags the great mound of PVC out and is delighted to find the pump nearby.
As if prompted by the sight of a paddling pool, the suns rays become brighter and hotter and with the nozzle pressed firmly in, my husband begins the gruelling task of pumping accompanied by three children all desperately eager to help. As usual, fifteen minutes later, the pool is still lying in a crumpled heap on the grass. My husband’s brow is dripping, but he battles on with round two. By this stage, he begins shouting at the pool, “Come on,” pumping furiously with no avail and I decide it is safer to head in the direction of the kitchen muttering something about cold drinks under my breath. An almighty roar erupts behind me and I turn to see my husband hurling the paddling pool across the hedge into the field beside our house. He then marches off leaving three stunned children behind him. I cannot hold back a smile, followed by a fit of giggles as I recall the pictures littered thoroughout the brochure of cheery families frolicking in their paddling pools and see ours lying in a ditch, with the pump sitting on top of the hedge.
After a cool drink, and a cold shower, my husband reappears, climbs over the hedge and hauls the pool back into the garden. After I read the instructions and tell him where he’s going wrong, he tries again. This time the sides calmly inflate and the yellow sunshine face on top pops up and smiles at us. Once full with cold water from the garden hose (all part of the overall experience), the children tear off their clothes and begin their frolic.
Within five minutes, the novelty has worn off and the children have marched inside to watch a DVD. Meanwhile, the paddling pool sits deserted on the lawn with not a child in sight.
Showing posts with label Daddy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Daddy. Show all posts
Friday, 22 June 2007
Friday, 18 May 2007
Bank holiday weekend
Bank Holiday weekend, the sun is out and the children are excited about their Daddy being at home. I am excited too. I have spent the past few days carefully drawing up a long list of jobs that my husband is uniquely qualified to do. Painting, clearing out the shed, replacing the numerous halogen bulbs that have blown, washing the car, mowing the lawn and making several trips to the Rubbish Dump, along with every other father in North Dorset. However, the children have a different list in mind which includes making camps, going to Cool Play, lunch in the pub followed by watching the ‘Shaun the Sheep’ DVD.
Saturday morning begins at 6am, an hour earlier than usual, with the pitter patter of feet along the corridor and into our bedroom. We desperately drag out the next hour by hauling a huge wooden box of cars onto our bed, much to the delight of our three-year-old son who ‘bruuums’ small lorries, tanks and buses across the duvet, over our heads and down our arms. The small cold wheels driving across our skin did not have quite the same effect as a massage with warm stones but at least we are still in the comfort of our bed. After the usual discussion over who is going to get out of bed first, the morning routine launches into action.
My husband shouts from the shower, “The water is cold.” Without taking too much notice, I place The List beside his cereal bowl, and decide to cook his favourite English breakfast, to get him in the right mood. Bacon, eggs, sausages and tomato in the grill pan ready for the piping hot Aga. However, not piping hot at all. Stone cold and well and truly off. Trying to remain calm, I say, “Darling, when did you last check the oil?” My husband appears in clothes that definitely don’t shout “gardening” and says, “Not for ages. Why?” He then spends the next few minutes sticking a bamboo cane down the top of the oil tank and calmly declares it empty. It then hits me. Bank Holiday weekend, no heating, no water and no oven. I become hysterical and fly into an almighty panic, while the children dance around the garden in their pyjamas jubilant about the prospect of eating meals out. I walk back into the kitchen subdued at the thought of my carefully planned Piquant chicken and Fondant potatoes replaced with Cheddar cheese sandwiches and Hula Hoops. My list is scattered across the kitchen floor in tiny pieces and as the dog looks up at me, head turned to one side, with a scrap of paper saying “Dump” stuck in its little beard, I realise that this Bank Holiday weekend was not going to go according to plan.
Saturday morning begins at 6am, an hour earlier than usual, with the pitter patter of feet along the corridor and into our bedroom. We desperately drag out the next hour by hauling a huge wooden box of cars onto our bed, much to the delight of our three-year-old son who ‘bruuums’ small lorries, tanks and buses across the duvet, over our heads and down our arms. The small cold wheels driving across our skin did not have quite the same effect as a massage with warm stones but at least we are still in the comfort of our bed. After the usual discussion over who is going to get out of bed first, the morning routine launches into action.
My husband shouts from the shower, “The water is cold.” Without taking too much notice, I place The List beside his cereal bowl, and decide to cook his favourite English breakfast, to get him in the right mood. Bacon, eggs, sausages and tomato in the grill pan ready for the piping hot Aga. However, not piping hot at all. Stone cold and well and truly off. Trying to remain calm, I say, “Darling, when did you last check the oil?” My husband appears in clothes that definitely don’t shout “gardening” and says, “Not for ages. Why?” He then spends the next few minutes sticking a bamboo cane down the top of the oil tank and calmly declares it empty. It then hits me. Bank Holiday weekend, no heating, no water and no oven. I become hysterical and fly into an almighty panic, while the children dance around the garden in their pyjamas jubilant about the prospect of eating meals out. I walk back into the kitchen subdued at the thought of my carefully planned Piquant chicken and Fondant potatoes replaced with Cheddar cheese sandwiches and Hula Hoops. My list is scattered across the kitchen floor in tiny pieces and as the dog looks up at me, head turned to one side, with a scrap of paper saying “Dump” stuck in its little beard, I realise that this Bank Holiday weekend was not going to go according to plan.
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