Day two of our summer holiday and we discover a child-friendly beach. It has a huge expanse of white sand, public loos nearby and a fish and chip van (farewell sandwiches!). There is also a nice tanned young man who sets up the deckchairs, parasol and windbreaker we have hired. My husband abandons his Blackberry and settles into his newspaper and I catch up on the latest celebrity news in my Heat magazine (it’s a holiday, after all). Suddenly, we hear the tinkling of music.
We turn to see the bright lights of a fun-fair opening its doors for the hords of holiday makers which will soon descend upon us. We glance at each other, wondering whether we can divert the children with a race up the beach in the other direction. No chance. The children jump up and down chanting, “Please, please can we go.” There is no getting out of it. We enter the gates to find merry-go-rounds, dodgems, a helter skelter, crazy golf and dozens of ride-on cartoon characters. The children excitedly scatter in all directions. Predictably, our son eyes up a black racing car, whilst our daughter clambers onto a horse on the merry-go-round. Meanwhile, The Baby leans forward in his buggy, hallucinating with all the bright flashing lights.
Once we have filled our pockets with tokens, we chase after the children waving furiously as they swing past us on trains, cars and boats. It was when we climbed into the dodgems, that I began to rather enjoy myself and judging by my husband’s competitive look in the car opposite, he was too. We revved up our engines and off we flew, sirens ringing out and hooters blowing. My daughter astonished me with her eagerness to hit the boys head on at top speed. Hearts pumping, adrenalin rushing, I then eagerly volunteer to take them on the helter skelter. My husband chuckles when the young teenager taking the tokens for the ride, looks me up and down and hands me two mats, saying, “It might be more comfortable for you missy.” Charming. We climb to the top of the slide and the children are terrified. “Don’t be ridiculous – it’s only a slide,” I say suddenly feeling sick as I peer over the edge. After further encouragement, they both climb onto my lap and cling on. We gently slide down, but rapidly pick up speed. I shut my eyes, the children start screaming but thankfully we soon come to an abrupt stop at the bottom. I open my eyes to find a group of smiling parents, including my husband, looking down at me chuckling. I am sitting with the two children clinging to my waist, and my skirt somwhere up around my ears. Unamused and highly embarassed, I jump up, smooth down my skirt and grab the children by the hands saying, “Now, where’s the Candy Floss.”
Friday, 24 August 2007
Friday, 17 August 2007
The beach
It is the first day of our annual summer holiday in the Isle of Wight. The children have one thing on their tiny minds – the beach. The beach bags are packed, preparing for every eventuality. Coats, wellies and jumpers combined with sun tan lotion, swimming costumes and towels. One giant family beach rug and a bland picnic put together whilst shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into three small starlings. All the usual baby kit including the obligatory nappies – oh, the thought of changing a wriggling baby on the sand!
Finally, we drive into the car park and begin to unload the car and load up my husband. His face peaks out beneath the towels and rug which he has thrown around his neck, to give himself maximum arm capacity for the assortment of bags. I push the laden down buggy and the children reluctantly carry a bucket each. We stroll down to the beach, but our flip flops barely touch the sand before we are enticed into a nearby stall to buy three small pairs of sea shoes, two fishing nets, and two folding chairs which my husband convinces me will make our picnic more civilised and less sandy.
On the beach, we search for a spare plot - a challenge given it is one of the first sunny days this summer and the sand is littered with British holidaymakers and their wind breakers. We begin our hike up the beach, and abandon the buggy, to begin a treacherous climb over the rocks to reach the one remaining patch of sand. We arrive, looking as if we have trekked across the Sahara, carrying a couple of suitcases. The children squeal with delight at the edge of the water before they are rounded up for a mass sun tan lotion application. I chase ‘The Baby’ around the beach on my hands and knees slapping on cream at any opportunity. My husband lays out the ham sandwiches, brownish bananas, water bottles and digestive biscuits. The Baby takes one look at it and lets out an almighty scream. This is because he has been watching the neighbouring family lay out their picnic on the adjoining rug, consisting of cheesy Wotsits, jaffa cakes, a swiss roll and chip butties. In full toddler style, he has no shame in abandoning our rug, join our rather alarmed neighbours and crossly point to the Wotsits. Embarassed, we scoop him up, smile and frantically try and divert him with a piece of cucumber. Meanwhile, the children are comfortably perched on the new picnic chairs tucking into their sandwiches. As we sit on the picnic rug, which is now covered in sand and tuck into a rather grainy sandwich, my husband says, “You can’t beat an English beach holiday can you!”
Finally, we drive into the car park and begin to unload the car and load up my husband. His face peaks out beneath the towels and rug which he has thrown around his neck, to give himself maximum arm capacity for the assortment of bags. I push the laden down buggy and the children reluctantly carry a bucket each. We stroll down to the beach, but our flip flops barely touch the sand before we are enticed into a nearby stall to buy three small pairs of sea shoes, two fishing nets, and two folding chairs which my husband convinces me will make our picnic more civilised and less sandy.
On the beach, we search for a spare plot - a challenge given it is one of the first sunny days this summer and the sand is littered with British holidaymakers and their wind breakers. We begin our hike up the beach, and abandon the buggy, to begin a treacherous climb over the rocks to reach the one remaining patch of sand. We arrive, looking as if we have trekked across the Sahara, carrying a couple of suitcases. The children squeal with delight at the edge of the water before they are rounded up for a mass sun tan lotion application. I chase ‘The Baby’ around the beach on my hands and knees slapping on cream at any opportunity. My husband lays out the ham sandwiches, brownish bananas, water bottles and digestive biscuits. The Baby takes one look at it and lets out an almighty scream. This is because he has been watching the neighbouring family lay out their picnic on the adjoining rug, consisting of cheesy Wotsits, jaffa cakes, a swiss roll and chip butties. In full toddler style, he has no shame in abandoning our rug, join our rather alarmed neighbours and crossly point to the Wotsits. Embarassed, we scoop him up, smile and frantically try and divert him with a piece of cucumber. Meanwhile, the children are comfortably perched on the new picnic chairs tucking into their sandwiches. As we sit on the picnic rug, which is now covered in sand and tuck into a rather grainy sandwich, my husband says, “You can’t beat an English beach holiday can you!”
Friday, 10 August 2007
Bob the Builder
Much to the delight of the children, we have had ‘Bob the Builder’ living with us, or should I say, alongside us for the past couple of months. The job was expected to last a month or so, but given our current very wet summer, we have had the pleasure of Bob for longer. I had not quite realised how much the combination of rain, builders and large quantities of mud would appeal to small children in their wellington boots. They have not been able to resist the urge to jump in puddles and climb the muddy banks. When I call them for tea, they run inside and flick off their wellies, resulting in a spray of mud across the floor and walls. The baby and dog then proceed to tread in the splatters of mud and tread it into the carpets across the the house. “What’s a bit of mud?” I regularly say to myself as I am mopping the kitchen floor for the umpteenth time that day.
Inevitably, our four-year-old son has decided that he is now a qualified builder having watched Bob and his sidekick, Charlie, eagerly. Yesterday I found him up a step ladder in the kitchen threatening to change one of the many halogen light bulbs which regularly need replacing. He has also compiled his own tool kit and when Bob leaves for the evening, our son is outside tapping and hammering, claiming he is working some overtime for Bob.
But what has really thrilled us all, is that the long awaited for terrace has now been completed. I had visions of my carefully chosen Bradstone flooring being littered with terracotta pots overflowing with Rosemary, Mint and Tarragon. But my husband was quick to say, “You can’t have pots. The children won’t be able to ride their bikes around properly.” To my horror, I have also discovered that he has spent much time briefing Bob on the ramp that he wants built for the steps so that the children can have a smoother ride without having to dismantle. I predict that before long, my lovely rustic terrace will be transformed into a busy racetrack littered with cones, ramps and signposts with not a herb in sight.
Inevitably, our four-year-old son has decided that he is now a qualified builder having watched Bob and his sidekick, Charlie, eagerly. Yesterday I found him up a step ladder in the kitchen threatening to change one of the many halogen light bulbs which regularly need replacing. He has also compiled his own tool kit and when Bob leaves for the evening, our son is outside tapping and hammering, claiming he is working some overtime for Bob.
But what has really thrilled us all, is that the long awaited for terrace has now been completed. I had visions of my carefully chosen Bradstone flooring being littered with terracotta pots overflowing with Rosemary, Mint and Tarragon. But my husband was quick to say, “You can’t have pots. The children won’t be able to ride their bikes around properly.” To my horror, I have also discovered that he has spent much time briefing Bob on the ramp that he wants built for the steps so that the children can have a smoother ride without having to dismantle. I predict that before long, my lovely rustic terrace will be transformed into a busy racetrack littered with cones, ramps and signposts with not a herb in sight.
Friday, 3 August 2007
First school report
Our five-year-old daughter has just finished her first year at school. At the end of term, we were presented with her school report. It lay in a brown envelope and as my husband and I opened it, with a large drink in our hands, it brought back memories of opening our exam results.
I will spare you the contents. There is nothing worse than parents who bore you to tears with a blow by blow account of their childrens’ progress. I recently had to endure a friend telling me all about how his son was a natural sportsman – and all at the age of three years old. However, what impressed us about my daughter’s report was the length and detail of it. She attends our village school and based on my childhood we did not expect to receive more than a couple of brief sentences such as “she has settled in well” or “she had made good progress in her first year.” In fact, we received very detailed and comprehensive feedback on how she was doing in every area imaginable. It was well written, perceptive and quite obviously not put together on a teacher’s lap while watching an episode of East Enders. There are 23 children in our daughter’s class, so this was no mean feat.
It prompted me to dig out my own school report. My mother had been keeping these neatly bound together in a file, along with a bizarre collection of handwriting books, newspaper cuttings and end of term reports ranging from 4 to 17 years old. The equivalent report at the end of my first year at school read: “Sophie has settled into school well although she takes life very seriously. She likes playing with the older boys and organising other children. She is a great chatterbox.” I dread to think what my parents thought when they read it. My husband said, “Well, it may be brief but it’s pretty accurate.” So perhaps the first report in life is the most telling. Teachers see a five-year-old for what they are, before they learn to act, lie or be influenced by their friends.
Perhaps employers should be asking for copies of the first school report to really get an insight into a new recruit’s character and personality!
I will spare you the contents. There is nothing worse than parents who bore you to tears with a blow by blow account of their childrens’ progress. I recently had to endure a friend telling me all about how his son was a natural sportsman – and all at the age of three years old. However, what impressed us about my daughter’s report was the length and detail of it. She attends our village school and based on my childhood we did not expect to receive more than a couple of brief sentences such as “she has settled in well” or “she had made good progress in her first year.” In fact, we received very detailed and comprehensive feedback on how she was doing in every area imaginable. It was well written, perceptive and quite obviously not put together on a teacher’s lap while watching an episode of East Enders. There are 23 children in our daughter’s class, so this was no mean feat.
It prompted me to dig out my own school report. My mother had been keeping these neatly bound together in a file, along with a bizarre collection of handwriting books, newspaper cuttings and end of term reports ranging from 4 to 17 years old. The equivalent report at the end of my first year at school read: “Sophie has settled into school well although she takes life very seriously. She likes playing with the older boys and organising other children. She is a great chatterbox.” I dread to think what my parents thought when they read it. My husband said, “Well, it may be brief but it’s pretty accurate.” So perhaps the first report in life is the most telling. Teachers see a five-year-old for what they are, before they learn to act, lie or be influenced by their friends.
Perhaps employers should be asking for copies of the first school report to really get an insight into a new recruit’s character and personality!
Friday, 27 July 2007
The Virus
A Virus has worked its way round our household this week. Not an electronic virus, but the raging sore throat, swollen glands and pounding headache. There is nothing worse than when illness takes control of a house full of small children and over-tired parents. In fact, it throws the whole weekly schedule into disarray. The washing baskets overflow, meals decline into basic menus and the television finds itself permanently on.
Our four-year-old son was the first to be hit but unlike most men, his father included, he took the illness head on and refused to be beaten by it. He continued to speed around on his black motorbike half dressed, sword his siblings at every opportunity, and took advantage of the situation with regular requests for chocolate. It then struck the baby (now 18-months-old but still referred to as The Baby). It was the usual case of a small child who one minute is splashing merrily in the bath, to rapidly deteriorating into a small whimpering ball with a high temperature and regular bouts of vomiting. I spent Sunday night, rocking him, pacing up and down, syringing his little mouth with Calpol and changing both his and our sheets at some unearthly time in the morning. As the dreaded 6.30am alarm call came from our son requesting his breakfast, I had barely slept. Then there came loud screams from my daughter’s room, prompting a mad dash down the corridor to find her sobbing with a mouth full of red roar bulbous tonsils. The rest of the day was spent administering copious amounts of medicine, amongst a household full of crying children, all competing to curl up on their Mummy’s knee.
By 3pm, it struck the mother but as usual we battle on, with supper to cook, washing to hang on the line and phone calls to make. The menu was swiftly changed to a rather processed looking sausage roll, a slice of cheese and a sad looking stem of broccoli. I was declining fast, so bathtime was cancelled (something that only happens in a case of emergency), and all three children were in bed by 5.45pm. I collapsed on the sofa, gargling asprin and furiously popping Nurofen declaring that I will not be beaten by this. It is simply out of the question for the mother to be ill. The night was spent administering more Calpol, singing lullabies and calming down whimpering children. The lack of sleep began to play with my mind prompting to me to wonder whether one can actually die of a sore throat. We awoke in a state of chaos greeted by sticky medicine spoons and sea of dirty tissues. My husband was away this week so he had been spared all this. As I relayed the events of the night to him, he replied, “I hope I don’t get it.” And I must admit, so do I. Otherwise he will undoubtedly demand I call 999 and admit himself to hospital for emergency treatment.
Our four-year-old son was the first to be hit but unlike most men, his father included, he took the illness head on and refused to be beaten by it. He continued to speed around on his black motorbike half dressed, sword his siblings at every opportunity, and took advantage of the situation with regular requests for chocolate. It then struck the baby (now 18-months-old but still referred to as The Baby). It was the usual case of a small child who one minute is splashing merrily in the bath, to rapidly deteriorating into a small whimpering ball with a high temperature and regular bouts of vomiting. I spent Sunday night, rocking him, pacing up and down, syringing his little mouth with Calpol and changing both his and our sheets at some unearthly time in the morning. As the dreaded 6.30am alarm call came from our son requesting his breakfast, I had barely slept. Then there came loud screams from my daughter’s room, prompting a mad dash down the corridor to find her sobbing with a mouth full of red roar bulbous tonsils. The rest of the day was spent administering copious amounts of medicine, amongst a household full of crying children, all competing to curl up on their Mummy’s knee.
By 3pm, it struck the mother but as usual we battle on, with supper to cook, washing to hang on the line and phone calls to make. The menu was swiftly changed to a rather processed looking sausage roll, a slice of cheese and a sad looking stem of broccoli. I was declining fast, so bathtime was cancelled (something that only happens in a case of emergency), and all three children were in bed by 5.45pm. I collapsed on the sofa, gargling asprin and furiously popping Nurofen declaring that I will not be beaten by this. It is simply out of the question for the mother to be ill. The night was spent administering more Calpol, singing lullabies and calming down whimpering children. The lack of sleep began to play with my mind prompting to me to wonder whether one can actually die of a sore throat. We awoke in a state of chaos greeted by sticky medicine spoons and sea of dirty tissues. My husband was away this week so he had been spared all this. As I relayed the events of the night to him, he replied, “I hope I don’t get it.” And I must admit, so do I. Otherwise he will undoubtedly demand I call 999 and admit himself to hospital for emergency treatment.
Friday, 20 July 2007
Musical beds
It had taken weeks of planning, co-ordinating two busy diaries but finally we had set a date to spend the weekend with friends.
We arrive at their house early and the children spend the day bouncing on trampolines, speeding around on bikes and generally creating havoc in their once immaculate playroom. We feel sure they are well exercised and will sleep beautifully. After sausages and baked beans, they exert a bit more energy and are then thrown into baths full of Matey bubbles. Tucked into an assortment of sleeping bags on bunk beds, blow-up mattresses and in travel cots they are content with a swift group book followed by lights off.
Downstairs we enjoy a child-free supper and get a bit over-excited with the bottles of Rosé. Once we realise it is after midnight, far too late for any parent who endures early rises and non-stop twittering for 14 hours a day, we too say our good nights to each other. However, little do we know what the night has in store for us. Just as I am drifting off to sleep, I hear the first yell which, as a parent with supersonic hearing, I quickly identify as one of ours. I spring out of bed and into the baby’s room in an impressive few seconds, to avoid waking the other children. My husband and I then embark on a ridiculous exercise of moving the travel cot into our bedroom. It doesn’t fit through the doorway, so we resort to dismantling it in total darkness and re-erecting it beside our bed. After half an hour of the baby shrieking and wondering why on earth we let ourselves have that last glass of Port, we drift back to sleep. Then come the small cries for Mummy, prompting another mad dash to scoop up my daughter and place her in our bed. Shortly afterwards, sharing the 5ft bed defeats my husband and with a few groans, he moves next door to my daughter’s bed. The night continues with yet more cries and corridors full of bleary-eyed parents. At 5.30am, I wake up with a jolt as the baby pours a glass of cold water over me, which he has grabbed from the bedside table. This soaks the rest of the bed and the two children lying beside me (my son joined us too!). As I wander down the landing, I glance into the children’s bedroom to find two boxer shorted fathers - one lying on the top bunk and one on the bottom. Meanwhile, my friend is downstairs on the sofa with two sleeping children beside her watching Big Brother Live, where she has been for the past two hours. It was musical beds in its extreme and by 8.30am, we were waving goodbye to our friends with three small children screaming in the back of the car wondering how on earth we were going to get through the rest of the day.
We arrive at their house early and the children spend the day bouncing on trampolines, speeding around on bikes and generally creating havoc in their once immaculate playroom. We feel sure they are well exercised and will sleep beautifully. After sausages and baked beans, they exert a bit more energy and are then thrown into baths full of Matey bubbles. Tucked into an assortment of sleeping bags on bunk beds, blow-up mattresses and in travel cots they are content with a swift group book followed by lights off.
Downstairs we enjoy a child-free supper and get a bit over-excited with the bottles of Rosé. Once we realise it is after midnight, far too late for any parent who endures early rises and non-stop twittering for 14 hours a day, we too say our good nights to each other. However, little do we know what the night has in store for us. Just as I am drifting off to sleep, I hear the first yell which, as a parent with supersonic hearing, I quickly identify as one of ours. I spring out of bed and into the baby’s room in an impressive few seconds, to avoid waking the other children. My husband and I then embark on a ridiculous exercise of moving the travel cot into our bedroom. It doesn’t fit through the doorway, so we resort to dismantling it in total darkness and re-erecting it beside our bed. After half an hour of the baby shrieking and wondering why on earth we let ourselves have that last glass of Port, we drift back to sleep. Then come the small cries for Mummy, prompting another mad dash to scoop up my daughter and place her in our bed. Shortly afterwards, sharing the 5ft bed defeats my husband and with a few groans, he moves next door to my daughter’s bed. The night continues with yet more cries and corridors full of bleary-eyed parents. At 5.30am, I wake up with a jolt as the baby pours a glass of cold water over me, which he has grabbed from the bedside table. This soaks the rest of the bed and the two children lying beside me (my son joined us too!). As I wander down the landing, I glance into the children’s bedroom to find two boxer shorted fathers - one lying on the top bunk and one on the bottom. Meanwhile, my friend is downstairs on the sofa with two sleeping children beside her watching Big Brother Live, where she has been for the past two hours. It was musical beds in its extreme and by 8.30am, we were waving goodbye to our friends with three small children screaming in the back of the car wondering how on earth we were going to get through the rest of the day.
Friday, 13 July 2007
Summer holidays
In three weeks time, the summer holidays will be upon us. Looking at the current weather conditions, I am beginning to panic at the thought of three small children, a border terrorist and me in a confined space for 6 weeks, or 45 days to be precise.
We have had eleven months to plan for it, but as usual with a few weeks to go, my husband and I finally sit down, stare at pages of blank spaces in the diary and try and decide how to fill them. My mother and mother-in-law both often remark, “It is good for children to be bored and entertain themselves.” This is all very well, but I remember that feeling of boredom in the summer holidays, with limited television, and a dog walk being my mother’s answer to it all. I am also a little concerned about my own sanity dealing with three starlings twittering, “I’m bored. What can we do?” for 45 days.
As we run through the holiday options, albeit a touch late when no doubt most things have been booked for months, we endeavour to find the perfect summer holiday solution. Hotel is one option but is ruled out partly due to our 18-month-old’s regular high pitch attention-seeking screeches - not something we want to inflict upon other fellow holiday makers. A Villa in Europe, where our children can be free to launch into tantrums or screech to their hearts content. However, the thought of my husband being on constant life guard duty to three non-swimmers and me feeding the washing machine with sweaty beach towels, whilst trying to prepare meals in someone else’s kitchen, don’t exactly appeal. A Family Resort, full of other people’s children all screaming in a shared swimming pool, surrounded by rows of parents reclined on sun loungers all desperately hoping their children will make friends so that they can enjoy a couple of pages of John Grisham or Jilly Cooper undisturbed. However, the last time we tried this it was so hot that our two year old spent the week playing with his dinky cars inside the public loos as eveywhere was too hot. My husband’s final suggestion was camping which I instantly vetoed – at least for this year - on the grounds of nappies.
After much debate, we have settled on spending a week in Wales with friends who have children of similar ages, and the other 38 days at home in Dorset. We plan to fill the garden with obscene amounts of plastic play equipment and throw in the odd treat in the form of a walk across the fields to the village shop to buy a Mini Milk, come rain or shine. Any other suggestions though for the school holidays would be gratefully recieved.
We have had eleven months to plan for it, but as usual with a few weeks to go, my husband and I finally sit down, stare at pages of blank spaces in the diary and try and decide how to fill them. My mother and mother-in-law both often remark, “It is good for children to be bored and entertain themselves.” This is all very well, but I remember that feeling of boredom in the summer holidays, with limited television, and a dog walk being my mother’s answer to it all. I am also a little concerned about my own sanity dealing with three starlings twittering, “I’m bored. What can we do?” for 45 days.
As we run through the holiday options, albeit a touch late when no doubt most things have been booked for months, we endeavour to find the perfect summer holiday solution. Hotel is one option but is ruled out partly due to our 18-month-old’s regular high pitch attention-seeking screeches - not something we want to inflict upon other fellow holiday makers. A Villa in Europe, where our children can be free to launch into tantrums or screech to their hearts content. However, the thought of my husband being on constant life guard duty to three non-swimmers and me feeding the washing machine with sweaty beach towels, whilst trying to prepare meals in someone else’s kitchen, don’t exactly appeal. A Family Resort, full of other people’s children all screaming in a shared swimming pool, surrounded by rows of parents reclined on sun loungers all desperately hoping their children will make friends so that they can enjoy a couple of pages of John Grisham or Jilly Cooper undisturbed. However, the last time we tried this it was so hot that our two year old spent the week playing with his dinky cars inside the public loos as eveywhere was too hot. My husband’s final suggestion was camping which I instantly vetoed – at least for this year - on the grounds of nappies.
After much debate, we have settled on spending a week in Wales with friends who have children of similar ages, and the other 38 days at home in Dorset. We plan to fill the garden with obscene amounts of plastic play equipment and throw in the odd treat in the form of a walk across the fields to the village shop to buy a Mini Milk, come rain or shine. Any other suggestions though for the school holidays would be gratefully recieved.
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