The car journey

The car is bursting at the seams. We look as if we are off on an overland trek lasting several months, not a week’s holiday in Wales. The boot is full of suitcases crammed with clothes for three small children, allowing for numerous daily changes due to regular yoghurt spillages. There is an assortment of buckets and spades and a basket full of emergency rations such as coffee, olive oil and loo paper. Draped across the top is bedding for everyone including my own essential feather pillow. I also spot my husband’s laptop carefully hidden behind the pile of coats.

The children sit shoulder to shoulder, car seats crammed together in the back. Just as we start the engine, the usual demands for music begin. In the absence of any childrens’ CDs, due to my complete ban on Humpty Dumpty, Little Bo Peep and the like, they shout out, “Christmas carols.” I tell them that Father Christmas hates having carols played before December. Unable to agree, we begin our journey out of the village in silence. Suddenly a small voice from behind me says, “Are we nearly there?”

We drive on with next to no wrong turns but then enter unknown territory and grope for the sticky old map that lives on the floor under the childrens’ feet. Part of the crucial page we need has been torn. I try to make sense of it, whilst also passing back bottles of water and digestives to the now apparently starving starlings in the back. One wrong turn and we end up in Bristol, hitting its ring road on the day that they have closed one of the two lanes to strim the middle stretch of grass on the dual carriageway. Inevitably, this causes a huge tail back of cars like us, bulging with luggage and families on their way to enjoy the Bank Holiday weekend. My husband is losing his temper as we sit watching the merry strimmers. The quantities of water have taken their toll and our four-year-old declares he needs to stop. The queues of traffic stretch out beyond and behind us so we have no option but to pull over onto the hard shoulder. “Oh well, at least it takes people’s minds off the traffic,” mutters my husband. We creep along another half a mile and our daughter pipes up that she also needs to stop. I draw a line at the hard shoulder and our eyes are peeled for the next service station. The noise level in the back picks up as our son thinks it is hilariously funny to lean on The Baby, revelling in the inevitable high pitch screeches. It is time for bribery. “If you all be quiet, I’ll put the carols on,” I say. Finally, we pull into the service station and screech to a halt with the children belting out ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.

The tent

Why is it that so many men have this huge desire to go camping? They seem to love the idea of taking their families into the wild, protecting them under a damp sheet of canvas and providing for them with a tin of ravioli warmed up on a gas stove. Personally, I have resisted the whole camping experience for the last year or so on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand. However, next year when The Baby is firmly ‘potted’, I might have to give in and join the merry camping fraternity and submit to nights spent in cold and damp sleeping bags.

With this in mind, I decided to buy my husband a tent for his recent birthday. I thought he could practice camping in the garden this summer in preparation for next year. Given the current wet weather conditions, this would be the perfect rehearsal. He was delighted with his two man tent, the sleeping bag and the blow-up mattress – together with the pump given to him by the dog. With no time like the present, he was eager to time himself erecting his tent in the garden ready for his first night camping with our four-year-old son. Half an hour in, he waved the instructions at me. “These are wrong! They make no sense at all,” he said. I followed him outside to find tent parts sprawled across the garden. The first step said to identify each piece of the tent equipment, in conjunction with a diagram. My husband assured me he had already done this. We moved on and started hammering in pegs. The result of our efforts was a large piece of canvas lying pinned to the ground like a flattened spider. “It’s utterly ridiculous. Take it back to the shop and tell them that they’ve given us the wrong instructions,” he barked. I just could not accept that two relatively bright adults were defeated by four steps of instructions. We kept on trying different angles but just before we gave up, I reverted back to step one. “Are you absolutely sure that this bit of canvas is the ‘inner tent?” I asked. We both glanced at the other piece which my husband had identified as “the ground sheet.” As we unravelled it, it was obvious that this was the tent and we had been trying to erect the ground sheet. We dissolved into a fit of giggles and five minutes later, the tent was standing in all its glory in the middle of the lawn.

I left my husband to pump up the mattress and a while later he was still pumping furiously. He mouthed through the window, “It’s broken.” I just wonder how he will cope with the whole family standing in the pouring rain on a campsite next year.

The picnic

The sun is shining and there is not a cloud in sight. We decide it is the perfect day for a picnic. My husband says he knows just the spot by the river where the children can paddle and play with their fishing nets. It sounds perfect.

We arrive and make our way through the first field, picnic basket in one hand, rug in the other while the children run ahead excitedly with the border terrorist. Into the second field, and my husband admits that it all looks a bit different from when he was last there – 10 years ago, he adds. The children are struggling with the long grass. In fact, we can barely see ‘The Baby’ as he toddles along behind us. The four-year-old begins to whine, “My legs hurt. I can’t walk anymore,” and we hear cries from ‘The Baby’ as he battles with the grass trying to avoid the numerous cow pats. My husband decides to dash ahead to survey different riverside picnic plots, determined to find the exact spot he has been to before. Finally, just as I realise we are standing in the midday sun and I have forgotten the sun tan lotion, he waves his arms from across the field and we march on for the final stretch.

The spot is indeed idyllic and the children race down to the river, while I lay out one of my renowned feeble picnics. A few bites into our cheese sandwiches and The Baby says, “Mooooo,” and points across the field to a herd of cows. “Clever boy,” we all chant. Our daughter says, “Why are the cows coming towards us?” We tell them that the cows are just interested in the dog. Suddenly, they break into a steady trot towards us and my husband jumps to his feet. The children begin screaming while he dashes forward protecting his family from a potential stampede with a plastic fishing net, shouting, “Shoo.” Realising they are unphased by this, he turns and shrieks, “RUN.” He tucks the rather alarmed baby under his arm and the children begin running across the field, much to the delight of the border terrorist who begins barking with excitement. Meanwhile, I ignore my husband and pack up the picnic, refusing to leave it in the middle of the field and submit to a herd of cows. Suddenly one of the cows becomes more confident and pushes its runny black nose towards me. With that, I start sprinting after my crazed family. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my flip-flops! We vault the stile and land in a heap the otherside. As we glance back, the cows are at the far side of the field standing around our picnic spot calmly grazing in peace no doubt utterly delighted that the deranged family have bolted.

The fun-fair

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.”

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!”

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.

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!