So it’s August. I am on holiday (from work, not life) and it’s past infant o’clock. Supping cocktails on the terrace in the late evening sunshine while the little darlings snooze away the fun of the day?
Am I fuck. I am intermittently supping some grossly acidic totally warm holiday Chardonnay while being bombarded with a documentary on….wait for it….it’s really too exciting…ok, go on then…fucking crisp production in Hampshire (thanks for the racy content BBC2).
Now I know what you are thinking. At least I am doing this on a Mediterranean terrace, lapping up the warm evening air with the shitty Chardonnay at least being delivered by glass every 5 minutes by some grossly underpaid hotel waiter dressed like a penguin. Think again. I am in North Wales. At my mother in laws (grits teeth and would breathe deeply in through the nose and out through the mouth, but fears instant death due to over inhalation of rampant dog fur if does so. Either that, or death due to the smell of microwaved salmon 😷).
Over the last 3 days, my husband and I have quite literally worn ourselves into a state of supreme exhaustion trying to over amuse the little darlings so that they will just go the fuck to sleep. In a fit of marital kindness (not to be repeated for at least the next 25 years), I said to darling husband “Oh look, they all seem to have gone to sleep. Why don’t you go on a bike ride?”. Darling husband displayed suspicion and an eagerness to experience freedom all at the same time. With a quick “Well if you don’t mind” muttered so quietly that frankly even if muttered in a nunnery where everyone else had taken a vow of silence it would have been barely audible, he was gone. (He doesn’t know I have booked an afternoon at the hairdressers tomorrow 😉).
I made a plan. A pizza (cooking time 11 minutes) and the bottle of piss poor Chardonnay along with a film (there is no Netflix. In fact, I am nicking someone else’s internet just to blog. Then again, what are neighbours for, right?). The film started at 7.15 pm. It’s now 8.45 pm, and I cannot even remember what the film was now, except that it’s a few years old, quite funny, and something to do with a DJ and a marriage breakup. Don’t get me wrong. I never expected to see the first 15 minutes. 7.30 pm, all 4 in bed. Pizza in the oven. I sit down with piss poor Chardonnay.
3 whole minutes later, one of the little darlings returns quite literally dripping in toddler crap. There is shit everywhere. I mean everywhere. The explanation? “I was walking around grandmas room because I couldn’t sleep, and it just came out.” I turn the oven off, and 79 baby wipes and two bedding changes later, the little darling is back in bed. Right, I can still catch up on the film, and the pizza won’t be too burnt/cold.
Apparently not. You see, grandma has a burglar alarm. The ones which have red flashing sensors. No amount of explanation to two of the little darlings would rationalise the flashing red lights. They mean burglars are coming. I am 5ft 4 1/2 inches. The ceiling is about 8 ft tall. 10 bruises and a step ladder later, and I find myself up a ladder sticking fucking pampers over the alarm sensors (I know, celebrate my maternal ingenuity!). Happy holidays mummy. Pina colada or pampers? What an amazing choice. Oh yes, I don’t have a choice (presuming that if I was drinking pina colada while sticking pampers on an alarm sensor while up a step ladder I may fall off said ladder).
While I was applying the pampers, the dog consumed the majority of the pizza. I decided not to care, and just to drink some more of the piss poor Chardonnay. As I poured it, I heard a wail. One twin had put up the cot side on the other twin’s cot. I cannot fix this, and apparently no amount of kicking the cot side while swearing under my breath works. There is nothing wrong with sweets in bed. That should fix everything. Grandma arrives armed with instructions, and 10 minutes later the cot side is back down. We have kept the instructions out.
Momentarily, everyone is quiet. There’s not much left of the piss poor Chardonnay, and nothing left of the pizza. On the plus side, it’s August, it’s the holidays, I am drinking (undrinkable) wine, and I now know it takes more than a year to produce a new flavour of crisp. Turns out that some peoples whole job is just packing crisps. I wonder if they get to drink Pina colada on a Mediterranean terrace?
The little darlings are still yelling. I have missed the entire film (and my pizza) and it’s only 9 hours until they jump on my head in bed screaming what are we doing today mummy? The Chardonnay is done.
Happy holidays to parents everywhere. May your nights be shit free and pina colada filled.