Last week, chased by cows and having wine chased by gin. This week, chased by my own mini beasts. My offspring. I am back to being Han Solo with the kids. They punished me for 16 hours after I picked them up from Grandparents on Monday. I had left them. I had, I point out, left them indulged, adored, worshipped and in a place where gifts were laid at their feet like they were Gods, whilst I was being chased through a field of cow poo by fat angry heffers. But, I am not above bribing their little Ginger heads with with Ginger Nuts to keep them happy and in love with me and ths is how I win them round.
Alex is stumbling towards me, mumbling
“Biscuit? One more?” *stumbles over* “One more biscuit pleeeeeeeeease?” *stumbles*.
NO! You are drunk on Ginger Nuts! I am cutting you off!
This *gestures with dramatic Evita style jabbing arms around a lounge strewn with Mr Potato Head body bits and soggy Ginger Nuts* is my domain. My empire. MY battleground. You are MINE once again. I am going to reel you in with love and biscuits and Peppa Pig DVD’s. And then confuse you massively by being normal and shouty again. Your confusion, is the source of my power.
What a joke.
Ed told me I was cranky. Cheeky little s*d. He is right though. I am losing control and I respond by being snappy. A few days of being a grown up has weakened my powers. It turns out freedom and “time to have a wee in peace” is my Kryptonite. Where once I was Lois from Malcom in the Middle, now I am Stacey Slaters mum from Eastenders, wobbling over my parental authority. I had just reached “hissing voice” point to tell them off. I wasn’t even THAT angry to warrant “hissing voice”, but because the neighbours had already heard me shout a LOT today, “Hissing voice” was all I could do. Hissing voice is like “stoney-not-moving-a-muscle-face” – it is reserved for either sheer blood boiling anger or when it is hot outside and the windows are open and Alan from next door is gardening.
But Alex had just done a big curly poo on the floor and Ed was running round cupping his manly bits shouting “WILLIES AND BALLS! WILLIES AND BALLS!”. It is how I imagine American Spring Break parties to be. Where does Ed get this from?! It isn’t like husband runs around naked as the day he was born holding his tackle and shouting “WILLIES AND BALLS!”…unless, well, I do go out with the girls every third wednesday of the month. Busted, husband, busted.
I need to gain control. I need to gain control. To treat them *cough* pass an afternoon, I take them to the Infection Pic n Mix that is Softplay. An arena full of ferral children, running around with Pack Mentality, like the London Riots on a smaller, padded scale. They should use Softplay arenas as test areas for possible outbreaks of riot and attacks. They could learn a lot. It is a modern day Lord of The Flies where “Piggy! PIGGY!” can be heard, chanted from somewhere between the uber padded safety net rope walk and the plush squidgy entrance to the slide. Stinking of cheesy feet and the farty bums of 100 constipation children (you know the smell) whose bowels are finally released after running away from The Biter, The Evil Hair Pullerer and The Poker, who take control of the top softplay slides… This. is. softplay.
This safety sign says it all. Look at the top left hand “Do not”.
A reference to the parents? I think not. A reference for the parents, maybe. A gentle nod in the direction of the Giant Wobbly Cowboy and the Monkey Biff Bash Bag…Smoking, is not allowed. Ok, The Biter?
You send them in fully clothed and smelling normal. They come out minus a sock, minus some hair (Damn you The Evil Hair Pullerer) and with other childrens scabs amongst their toes.
But, in fairness. It is the best £10 I have spent all week. Man, did they sleep well last night.