My husband scrambles around the boot of the car, trying to put the back seats down in preparation for the bicycles. Meanwhile, I refer to the instruction manual and shout orders from the doorway about which lever to try next. Eventually, they fold down and we begin squeezing the bikes into the boot. Crouched in the back, my husband heaves them in, trying different angles to get the boot to close. “We have got to get a bike rack,” he says through gritted teeth.
The children excitedly climb in, sporting brightly coloured cycling helmets in preparation for their first proper bicycle ride. We wave to Daddy, who has the garden shed to build, and tell him we will be back in an hour. We arrive in Sturminster Newton at the entrance to the newly opened North Dorset Trailway. We heave the bikes out and set off with a backpack full of essential rations, consisting of Jaffa Cakes and a bottle of water.
The sun shines down on us as we cycle along the path past water meadows and over the River Stour. As I watch the children ride ahead of me, I realise that a whole new world has opened up, now they have abandoned the stabilisers. My son “vrooms” ahead, occasionally skidding to a stop, to check on his mother steadily pedalling behind him. As we approach walkers I call, “Keep to the left.” They pedal over to the right and then wobble over to the left, just missing a few passers by and their dogs.
Much to the children’s delight, we then come to a hill. “Brake,” I shriek from behind them as I watch them speed down, dust flying up behind them. “We can’t,” they shout. After a quick stop to embark on some ‘brake’ training and to re-energise with a Jaffa Cake, we are on our way again. The children are determined to cycle to Shillingstone and back. Admittedly, I am nervous given we are amateurs on our first bicycle ride which happens to be six miles long. However, we successfully reach our destination and head back with a little less enthusiasm. Suddenly, I hear a yell and turn to see my daughter take a tumble onto the path. She begins screaming, holding her knee. I dab the graze with a bit of tissue from my pocket and instantly regret not having a first aid kit. I know that a plaster would result in an instant recovery. We try to jolly her along with another Jaffa Cake and encourage her to get back on the bike. However, having now also spotted a graze on her arm, the tears roll full and fast. For the next two miles I am bent double pushing a small bike, as well as my own while my daughter hobbles behind me sobbing uncontrollably. “Call the air ambulance,” she cries. Walkers stroll by, greeting us cheerily and I struggle to smile. An hour later, overheated and exhausted we see the car park ahead of us. “I think I’m alright to cycle now,” says my daughter as she climbs onto her bike and speeds off. I watch in disbelief. “Never again,” I mutter.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Friday, 13 June 2008
Trip to London
We are sitting having a picnic in Green Park, on a half-term trip to London. My four-year-old son suddenly asks, “Mummy, why are there so many baddies in London?” For a moment, I think he is referring to the national publicity about London’s knife crime and begin to tell him that whilst there are some baddies, there are many more goodies. He pauses for a moment before adding, “But why are the baddies all sitting on benches eating their lunch?” I glance across to look at a mass of men in suits enjoying their sandwiches in the sun. Why does he think they are baddies? “Because they’re wearing black and baddies always wear black.”
Now everything becomes clear. Earlier as we had walked along the busy pavements, he had been careful to step aside when any man in a suit walked past. I had mistaken this for politeness. Actually, he was quite terrified and had convinced himself that anyone wearing a suit was a member of a large London baddy gang.
The three children finish their lunch and bound off into the park to let off some steam, after a morning’s trailing round a museum. They rugby tackle each other to the ground, shrieking and I feel instantly relieved that they are wearing old jeans. However, I am horrified to see The Toddler suddenly whip down his trousers and ‘widdle’ on the grass, much to the amusement of his brother. At that moment, three small girls scoot past him staring. They are dressed in matching floral smocked dresses, their hair neatly held back off their face with velvet hair-bands. Meanwhile, my daughter, with her mass of brown hair unleashed around her face, is busy picking up litter from the ground. The girls’ smartly dressed mother looks aghast as my daughter scoops up old tissues and a crisp packet stuffing them into her coat pocket. “Just leave it,” I shout. “But Mummy, the litter might kill the birds,” she cries.
Suddenly, I hear high pitched screams and see the two boys running towards me terrified. “The big birds are chasing us,” shrieks my son. A small group of pigeons are following behind them, desperately hoping to be fed. With the three children huddled around my legs, I shoo the birds away, much to the amusement of the lunchtime workers. The pigeons refuse to budge and more join them. I fling the Toddler in the buggy and yell, “Run.” We sprint out of the park and return to the safety of our small flat, away from the urban baddies, litter and pigeons.
Now everything becomes clear. Earlier as we had walked along the busy pavements, he had been careful to step aside when any man in a suit walked past. I had mistaken this for politeness. Actually, he was quite terrified and had convinced himself that anyone wearing a suit was a member of a large London baddy gang.
The three children finish their lunch and bound off into the park to let off some steam, after a morning’s trailing round a museum. They rugby tackle each other to the ground, shrieking and I feel instantly relieved that they are wearing old jeans. However, I am horrified to see The Toddler suddenly whip down his trousers and ‘widdle’ on the grass, much to the amusement of his brother. At that moment, three small girls scoot past him staring. They are dressed in matching floral smocked dresses, their hair neatly held back off their face with velvet hair-bands. Meanwhile, my daughter, with her mass of brown hair unleashed around her face, is busy picking up litter from the ground. The girls’ smartly dressed mother looks aghast as my daughter scoops up old tissues and a crisp packet stuffing them into her coat pocket. “Just leave it,” I shout. “But Mummy, the litter might kill the birds,” she cries.
Suddenly, I hear high pitched screams and see the two boys running towards me terrified. “The big birds are chasing us,” shrieks my son. A small group of pigeons are following behind them, desperately hoping to be fed. With the three children huddled around my legs, I shoo the birds away, much to the amusement of the lunchtime workers. The pigeons refuse to budge and more join them. I fling the Toddler in the buggy and yell, “Run.” We sprint out of the park and return to the safety of our small flat, away from the urban baddies, litter and pigeons.
Friday, 6 June 2008
The haircut
The Toddler is a fairly amiable little chap. Most of the time he is placid, content and happily follows behind his siblings with his grubby rag in his hand.
However, the one thing he just can’t abide is The Haircut. A year ago, he happily sat on my lap, having his baby curls snipped for the album. When his new Toddler hair began growing ready for the next cut, he dug his heels in and refused to let a pair of scissors anywhere near his small auburn head. Despite knowing our lovely hairdresser Sally well, he simply refused to cooperate. Sally quite sensibly suggested we leave it for a while so as not to traumatise the poor little mite. However, as his mother I was perfectly happy to pin him to my lap, hold his head in my hands and shout, “Cut”.
As the hair gradually grew and he began looking up from under his fringe, a friend suggested we try cutting his hair at home. She thought he would be less worried in a familiar environment, with Balamory to distract him. We duly tried this, but predictably he began screaming once he saw the scissors and even Josie Jump couldn’t distract him while I made a desperate attempt to snip at a side burn. It continued to grow, but not in a small, cool surfer kind of way – more like small thin rat’s tails falling around his neck. People began to make comments such as, “How sweet,” while his Granny, never one for holding back, said, “When are you going to cut that dreadful hair?” I was at my wits end, so Granny, who is often quick to remind me that children only behave badly with their parents, stepped into the frame and said she would take him. An hour later, she returned red-faced and fairly dishevelled, handed me the Toddler and said, “I need a drink.”
Finally, I was left with my last option. As night fell and The Toddler drifted into his golden land of slumbers, I tiptoed into his room with my rather curved edge nail scissors. I set to work on one side under the dim light of the landing, and then gently turned his head to start on the other. He stirred and murmured, “No,” sleepily, at which point I ducked down beneath the bed, so as not to wake him. As I edged back up, he sat up and stared at me. It was all over for one night at least. The next night, I was back with my scissors to do the other side. Job done. He now has probably the worst haircut in Dorset, with long and short strands scattered across his small head. I am just utterly relieved that we have at least a month or so before I have to embark once more on my midnight haircuts.
However, the one thing he just can’t abide is The Haircut. A year ago, he happily sat on my lap, having his baby curls snipped for the album. When his new Toddler hair began growing ready for the next cut, he dug his heels in and refused to let a pair of scissors anywhere near his small auburn head. Despite knowing our lovely hairdresser Sally well, he simply refused to cooperate. Sally quite sensibly suggested we leave it for a while so as not to traumatise the poor little mite. However, as his mother I was perfectly happy to pin him to my lap, hold his head in my hands and shout, “Cut”.
As the hair gradually grew and he began looking up from under his fringe, a friend suggested we try cutting his hair at home. She thought he would be less worried in a familiar environment, with Balamory to distract him. We duly tried this, but predictably he began screaming once he saw the scissors and even Josie Jump couldn’t distract him while I made a desperate attempt to snip at a side burn. It continued to grow, but not in a small, cool surfer kind of way – more like small thin rat’s tails falling around his neck. People began to make comments such as, “How sweet,” while his Granny, never one for holding back, said, “When are you going to cut that dreadful hair?” I was at my wits end, so Granny, who is often quick to remind me that children only behave badly with their parents, stepped into the frame and said she would take him. An hour later, she returned red-faced and fairly dishevelled, handed me the Toddler and said, “I need a drink.”
Finally, I was left with my last option. As night fell and The Toddler drifted into his golden land of slumbers, I tiptoed into his room with my rather curved edge nail scissors. I set to work on one side under the dim light of the landing, and then gently turned his head to start on the other. He stirred and murmured, “No,” sleepily, at which point I ducked down beneath the bed, so as not to wake him. As I edged back up, he sat up and stared at me. It was all over for one night at least. The next night, I was back with my scissors to do the other side. Job done. He now has probably the worst haircut in Dorset, with long and short strands scattered across his small head. I am just utterly relieved that we have at least a month or so before I have to embark once more on my midnight haircuts.
Friday, 30 May 2008
A trip to town
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” says my mother cheerily on the doorstep. I have just dropped off The Toddler, the border terrorist, the puppy, several overnight bags and the football and tennis kit. I am off to London to spend two whole days and nights away without the children.
Needless to say, I have spent the last few days planning my trip and drafting a detailed itinerary. There are the inevitable school pick-ups, followed by a quick snack in the car, after-school clubs and various homework instructions. As always, they are relaxed and say, “After all, we’ve done this before.” As I drive off, I hear a scream and glance in my mirror to see the puppy racing off with The Toddler’s beloved blanket. I remind myself to return armed with a large bottle of whisky for Granny and Grandpa.
The train pulls into Gillingham and my heart beats with excitement. I can read my newspaper, a copy of Hello and listen to my Ipod, with absolutely no interruption. As we roll through the countryside, I relax into the realms of pre-motherhood. Suddenly, I realise I have forgotten to tell my mother not to put butter in my daughter’s sandwiches. I fumble for my mobile and put in a call. She is out. Oh goodness, where has she gone? What has happened to The Toddler? Has the border terrorist made a mad dash across the fields to escape the puppy? I leave a long message reminding her about the sandwiches and ask her to call when she gets back.
A nice lady sits down beside me with her three small children. She apologises for the usual child-like noises. I reassure her and tell her I have children of my own. In fact, half an hour later, with my newspaper lying unread on the table, I realise I have talked of nothing else. She smiles politely as I neurotically tell her about my trip and how my mother is looking after the children. “I’m sure she has just gone out to get some milk,” she says as I relay the answer phone message to her.
Finally, and no doubt with much relief for my fellow mother beside me, we pull in to Waterloo. I am overwhelmed by the amount of smartly dressed people dashing through the station in a desperate hurry. I feel a little lost pulling my little wheelie case behind me. I should be carrying a sign that reads, “Please take care. Dorset mother in town.” I find myself a taxi and give the address of my husband’s office. I am in need of a familiar face to help launch me into London life. I check my mobile. My three children’s faces peer up at me from the screen and the phone beeps with a text message from my mother. “All fine. Hope you’re having a lovely time.” The friendly taxi driver asks where I’m from. “Dorset,” I say proudly. “And, have I mentioned I’ve got three small children aged ….”
Needless to say, I have spent the last few days planning my trip and drafting a detailed itinerary. There are the inevitable school pick-ups, followed by a quick snack in the car, after-school clubs and various homework instructions. As always, they are relaxed and say, “After all, we’ve done this before.” As I drive off, I hear a scream and glance in my mirror to see the puppy racing off with The Toddler’s beloved blanket. I remind myself to return armed with a large bottle of whisky for Granny and Grandpa.
The train pulls into Gillingham and my heart beats with excitement. I can read my newspaper, a copy of Hello and listen to my Ipod, with absolutely no interruption. As we roll through the countryside, I relax into the realms of pre-motherhood. Suddenly, I realise I have forgotten to tell my mother not to put butter in my daughter’s sandwiches. I fumble for my mobile and put in a call. She is out. Oh goodness, where has she gone? What has happened to The Toddler? Has the border terrorist made a mad dash across the fields to escape the puppy? I leave a long message reminding her about the sandwiches and ask her to call when she gets back.
A nice lady sits down beside me with her three small children. She apologises for the usual child-like noises. I reassure her and tell her I have children of my own. In fact, half an hour later, with my newspaper lying unread on the table, I realise I have talked of nothing else. She smiles politely as I neurotically tell her about my trip and how my mother is looking after the children. “I’m sure she has just gone out to get some milk,” she says as I relay the answer phone message to her.
Finally, and no doubt with much relief for my fellow mother beside me, we pull in to Waterloo. I am overwhelmed by the amount of smartly dressed people dashing through the station in a desperate hurry. I feel a little lost pulling my little wheelie case behind me. I should be carrying a sign that reads, “Please take care. Dorset mother in town.” I find myself a taxi and give the address of my husband’s office. I am in need of a familiar face to help launch me into London life. I check my mobile. My three children’s faces peer up at me from the screen and the phone beeps with a text message from my mother. “All fine. Hope you’re having a lovely time.” The friendly taxi driver asks where I’m from. “Dorset,” I say proudly. “And, have I mentioned I’ve got three small children aged ….”
Friday, 23 May 2008
Bottom butter
It seems mothers across the country are making mad dashes to their nearest Waitrose desperate to get hold of a pot of ‘baby bottom butter’. However, it is not for treating their babies’ nappy rash – rather to slap on their own faces as a moisturiser. Someone somewhere, most probably after a sleepless night with a small baby, decided to apply the bottom butter to their face and no doubt after mentioning its effects at the local mother and toddler group, word spread across the nation culminating in a feature on GMTV.
Sitting in rural Dorset, I too read about the bottom butter in a national newspaper and read the glowing feedback from bottom butter users. One mother says, “I have taken to putting it on twice a day. I am 18 again.” And another adds, “I have been using it constantly for two weeks and my skin now has the smoothest texture.” Admittedly, my first reaction was to laugh at how ridiculously gullible these poor mothers were. Who on earth would resort to putting butter on their face?
A few days later, as I was reaching for my baby wipes in Waitrose, I noticed a sign beneath an empty shelf, which read, “Temporarily out of stock due to extensive media coverage.” As I continued pushing my trolley into the next aisle, it got me thinking. What if it does work, what if my crow’s feet disappeared forever, what if I could say farewell to the dark lines under my eyes? That was it. I wanted to track the bottom butter down and try it for myself.
However, my merry mass of mothers across the country had bought up every pot of the £2.49 butter, leaving the shelves utterly bare. Sales doubled to 30,000 pots in the first part of 2008 as the suppliers, based in Hampshire, were completely taken by surprise. At Waitrose Gillingham, Dry Goods Section Manager, Andy Hartstone, said, “We have had massive interest, and whilst most of the stock coming into the branch satisfied orders we had taken from customers, the remainder hit the shelf, and was sold within minutes. We expect some more stock between now and the end of May.”
But I am impatient. I launch a full-scale investigation into tracking down a pot, including checking Ebay, where they were selling for up to £30. After several phone calls and a lot of grovelling, my baby bottom butter source arrived at my door carrying two pots. The children watched as I squealed with delight chanting, “Goodbye 34, hello 18.”
This morning, I enthusiastically smeared the bottom butter over my face. It smells of vanilla, which apparently calms your baby and perhaps even the mother too. It is fairly greasy, given the olive oil it contains and is also very warm, given the film it has created across my skin. But it is completely natural and free from any artificial colours. I am excited, and as I skip into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, I feel the effects of youth re-emerging. I will keep you posted.
Sitting in rural Dorset, I too read about the bottom butter in a national newspaper and read the glowing feedback from bottom butter users. One mother says, “I have taken to putting it on twice a day. I am 18 again.” And another adds, “I have been using it constantly for two weeks and my skin now has the smoothest texture.” Admittedly, my first reaction was to laugh at how ridiculously gullible these poor mothers were. Who on earth would resort to putting butter on their face?
A few days later, as I was reaching for my baby wipes in Waitrose, I noticed a sign beneath an empty shelf, which read, “Temporarily out of stock due to extensive media coverage.” As I continued pushing my trolley into the next aisle, it got me thinking. What if it does work, what if my crow’s feet disappeared forever, what if I could say farewell to the dark lines under my eyes? That was it. I wanted to track the bottom butter down and try it for myself.
However, my merry mass of mothers across the country had bought up every pot of the £2.49 butter, leaving the shelves utterly bare. Sales doubled to 30,000 pots in the first part of 2008 as the suppliers, based in Hampshire, were completely taken by surprise. At Waitrose Gillingham, Dry Goods Section Manager, Andy Hartstone, said, “We have had massive interest, and whilst most of the stock coming into the branch satisfied orders we had taken from customers, the remainder hit the shelf, and was sold within minutes. We expect some more stock between now and the end of May.”
But I am impatient. I launch a full-scale investigation into tracking down a pot, including checking Ebay, where they were selling for up to £30. After several phone calls and a lot of grovelling, my baby bottom butter source arrived at my door carrying two pots. The children watched as I squealed with delight chanting, “Goodbye 34, hello 18.”
This morning, I enthusiastically smeared the bottom butter over my face. It smells of vanilla, which apparently calms your baby and perhaps even the mother too. It is fairly greasy, given the olive oil it contains and is also very warm, given the film it has created across my skin. But it is completely natural and free from any artificial colours. I am excited, and as I skip into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, I feel the effects of youth re-emerging. I will keep you posted.
Friday, 9 May 2008
Sunday lunch
There is nothing nicer than a family Sunday lunch. However, I have realised that Sunday lunch is not quite the same when you are at the helm as the Mother.
Last weekend, I spent most of Sunday morning peeling, chopping and basting, regularly checking the clock to ensure I am on the track with the timings – something my mother says is critical for the perfect roast. Needless to say, by midday I am surrounded by three small people saying, “Can I have something to eat?” I distract them with a small bowel of peanuts and glance again at the potatoes, which are as usual letting me down with not a crispy edge in sight. My husband looks up from the Sunday newspapers and asks, “We have got bread sauce haven’t we?” Oh woops, I knew there was something I needed to get. I fob him off with some feeble explanation and appease him with a new jar of redcurrant jelly. He disappears back into the Business section mumbling, “It’s just not the same without all the trimmings.”
The cries ring out from the playroom as the hunger sets in and arguments begin. If I don’t accelerate, this could evolve into temper tantrums, resulting with at least one child missing lunch altogether, choosing instead to spend it face down in their pillow. Red-faced, I speed up my gravy-whisking, pleading with it to thicken. Just to add to the pressure, the timer periodically beeps announcing each vegetable. Finally, I’m there and summon my husband to take his traditional place before the carving plate. I watch him pull my beautiful free-range bird apart, having learnt never to criticise a man when he is carving. Finally, we all sit round the table and for a small moment we are the perfect Sunday lunchtime family. From then on, one or other, or all three children periodically slide on and off their chairs. We battle and bribe over eating their vegetables and say, “You wouldn’t behave like this at Granny’s”. My husband and I eat at record speed, trying to remain calm. Suddenly I smell burning. I make a dive for the oven door, only to discover the very crispy, charred roast potatoes, which I had forgotten about. I know the sight of anything ‘black’ will cause the children to burst into a group “Urrgh”, so I quickly shovel them into the bin.
Having spent hours cooking the Sunday roast, it is over in a matter of minutes. I am left standing in the kitchen alone, leaning against the oven. I glance across at the piles of pans in the sink, close my eyes, enjoy the silence and count to ten. At least it is over for another week.
Last weekend, I spent most of Sunday morning peeling, chopping and basting, regularly checking the clock to ensure I am on the track with the timings – something my mother says is critical for the perfect roast. Needless to say, by midday I am surrounded by three small people saying, “Can I have something to eat?” I distract them with a small bowel of peanuts and glance again at the potatoes, which are as usual letting me down with not a crispy edge in sight. My husband looks up from the Sunday newspapers and asks, “We have got bread sauce haven’t we?” Oh woops, I knew there was something I needed to get. I fob him off with some feeble explanation and appease him with a new jar of redcurrant jelly. He disappears back into the Business section mumbling, “It’s just not the same without all the trimmings.”
The cries ring out from the playroom as the hunger sets in and arguments begin. If I don’t accelerate, this could evolve into temper tantrums, resulting with at least one child missing lunch altogether, choosing instead to spend it face down in their pillow. Red-faced, I speed up my gravy-whisking, pleading with it to thicken. Just to add to the pressure, the timer periodically beeps announcing each vegetable. Finally, I’m there and summon my husband to take his traditional place before the carving plate. I watch him pull my beautiful free-range bird apart, having learnt never to criticise a man when he is carving. Finally, we all sit round the table and for a small moment we are the perfect Sunday lunchtime family. From then on, one or other, or all three children periodically slide on and off their chairs. We battle and bribe over eating their vegetables and say, “You wouldn’t behave like this at Granny’s”. My husband and I eat at record speed, trying to remain calm. Suddenly I smell burning. I make a dive for the oven door, only to discover the very crispy, charred roast potatoes, which I had forgotten about. I know the sight of anything ‘black’ will cause the children to burst into a group “Urrgh”, so I quickly shovel them into the bin.
Having spent hours cooking the Sunday roast, it is over in a matter of minutes. I am left standing in the kitchen alone, leaning against the oven. I glance across at the piles of pans in the sink, close my eyes, enjoy the silence and count to ten. At least it is over for another week.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Summer holiday planning
It is about this time of the year, when I am frequently asked, “What are you doing in the Summer Holidays?” In the middle of April, this question immediately stresses me out. I have just about coped with 17 days of Easter holidays, but the thought of 42 days of Summer holidays fills me with total panic. In fact, put like that, Easter is just a warm up – a rehearsal for the long stretch that will hit us all at the end of July.
As usual, we have left it to the last minute, despite saying to ourselves year after year that we will get our acts together earlier. Finally, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other mothers discussing holidays in the playground last week, I felt compelled to set my mind to the task. As always, the difficulty is finding one that bridges the gap between what parents would call a holiday, versus what a six, four and two year-old would call a holiday.
I gave up on the idea of sitting in the local travel agent leafing through brochures, after The Toddler decided to join in, resulting in a whole row of Safari holiday brochures toppling down from the shelves around him. It was now all down to The Internet with The Toddler parked in front of an extended episode of Balamory.
My husband and the children’s fist choice is camping, one that fills me with dread. However, last year I made the fatal mistake of saying to my husband (and printing in a Family Ties article) that I would not consider a camping holiday, “on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand.” Now that The Toddler is fully ‘potted’, I have no excuse so camping is back on the agenda. I made a feeble attempt to ‘google’ a few campsites, but promptly gave up when I stumbled upon a website containing a whole blog of unhappy campers’ feedback, from talk of rats to dangerous caterpillars! This prompted me to switch to my ideal family holiday, involving sun, sea, pool, beach and some very nice friendly kids clubs nearby.
Meanwhile, my husband persisted with his investigation of the perfect camping holiday, refusing to believe any of the negative feedback, swiftly labelling them all as, “amateur campers.” It soon turned into a race. We sat in bed with our laptops on our laps, surfing like mad into the early hours, utterly determined to find the perfect option. Unfortunately, my perfect holiday stumbled at the first hurdle when we realised that camping was a fifth of the price. I had lost and had to submit to the idea of joining the merry camping fraternity, water slides, kids entertainers and the rest. Thankfully, my husband did compromise on sleeping under canvas and has booked us into a static mobile home. “It will be great,” he says and then adds, excitedly, “It’s even got decking!”
As usual, we have left it to the last minute, despite saying to ourselves year after year that we will get our acts together earlier. Finally, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other mothers discussing holidays in the playground last week, I felt compelled to set my mind to the task. As always, the difficulty is finding one that bridges the gap between what parents would call a holiday, versus what a six, four and two year-old would call a holiday.
I gave up on the idea of sitting in the local travel agent leafing through brochures, after The Toddler decided to join in, resulting in a whole row of Safari holiday brochures toppling down from the shelves around him. It was now all down to The Internet with The Toddler parked in front of an extended episode of Balamory.
My husband and the children’s fist choice is camping, one that fills me with dread. However, last year I made the fatal mistake of saying to my husband (and printing in a Family Ties article) that I would not consider a camping holiday, “on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand.” Now that The Toddler is fully ‘potted’, I have no excuse so camping is back on the agenda. I made a feeble attempt to ‘google’ a few campsites, but promptly gave up when I stumbled upon a website containing a whole blog of unhappy campers’ feedback, from talk of rats to dangerous caterpillars! This prompted me to switch to my ideal family holiday, involving sun, sea, pool, beach and some very nice friendly kids clubs nearby.
Meanwhile, my husband persisted with his investigation of the perfect camping holiday, refusing to believe any of the negative feedback, swiftly labelling them all as, “amateur campers.” It soon turned into a race. We sat in bed with our laptops on our laps, surfing like mad into the early hours, utterly determined to find the perfect option. Unfortunately, my perfect holiday stumbled at the first hurdle when we realised that camping was a fifth of the price. I had lost and had to submit to the idea of joining the merry camping fraternity, water slides, kids entertainers and the rest. Thankfully, my husband did compromise on sleeping under canvas and has booked us into a static mobile home. “It will be great,” he says and then adds, excitedly, “It’s even got decking!”
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