Despair at the horror of half-term
last week made me forget my cardinal parenting rule: never go anywhere
in the car with the children if it takes longer than ten minutes half
an hour. And so it was that I found
myself packing up the car last week to visit my friend H, mother of the Boy’s
separated-at-birth-twin, Jack, in deepest Hampshire.
The lawyer in me had to cover every
eventuality: what if we get stuck there? (pjs and toothbrushes. JUST IN CASE); what if the weather is fabulous?
(t-shirts. Shorts. YOU NEVER KNOW); what if it snows (Snowboots; puffa jackets; thermals.
Standard UK spring-wear); what if
they fall in the mud (spare trousers); what
if they’re sick in the car? (big towel, lots of wipes); what if the boys want
to play swords? (Swords); etc. And so it
was that we left an hour later than planned, with a MUCH fuller car than
planned. 7 minutes later, we were in the
Asda carpark, with me muttering under my breath, while I untied the kids and
ushered them into the toilet. Bastarding
Asda toilets are located past the toy section, rendering me both poorer (cash)
and richer (swearing). An hour and 40 minutes
later, we were ON OUR WAY.
The whining started almost
immediately. “I sick”, announced the
Girl. “No, I’M sick”, countered the Boy. This ping-pong whinging went on and on, until
eventually I could stand it no longer, roaring “IF ANYONE IS SICK HERE IT IS M...” before being rudely interrupted by the Girl
vomiting all over her seat. So I guess
she was a bit sick, after all. Just as she was belting out a second round of
quasi-digested bagel, while I was in the middle of barking instructions at the
Boy (“The towel! The TOWEL!!! GIVE HER THE TOWEL! The TOWEL AT YOUR FEET, put it UNDER HER
NECK...”) I realised the thick bitch of a GPS woman was sending me the wrong
way. Two more sicks later I was able to
stop, clean up and strip the Girl (fuck it, I forgot spare tops, but nothing
nicer than spending the day in your PJs, no matter how old you are), and we
were ON OUR WAY yet again.
3 minutes – I am not joking – later,
the Boy piped up.
“I need a wee-wee...”
“You have GOT to be joking.”
“It’s not a joke, it’s not
funny. It HURTS.”
“You’ll just have to hold it in.”
“I CAN’T! I’ve been holding it in for HOURS. It HUUUUUURRRRTS!”
“Here, put this on” – rooting in my passenger-seat
handbag, and handing him a nappy. (A BIG
nappy. I am nothing if not a speedy
learner re the importance of an adequately-sized nappy while mobile.)
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Put it on myself?”
“YESFORTHELOVEOFGODI’MTRYINGTODRIVE”
“How?”
“Jeeesu... [deep breath] Just pull down your pants. [glancing
in mirror] TROUSERS FIRST. Pull down
your trousers then your pants. Then just sit on the nappy and bring it up
over your willy. You KNOW how to do it.”
[glancing
in mirror again]
“Ok, stand up. TAKE YOUR SEAT BELT
OFF FIRST...”
I swear, it was like trying to talk a
dog into a nappy. Eventually we both gave up, I pulled into a service station, he
jumped out of the car, half naked (much to the amusement of the people eating
their sandwiches at a picnic table - yes!
At a service station! Mind you it did
have a lovely view of the motorway) and then pissed all over my boots.
We got there, eventually.
It was wonderful. It was probably the best day of parenting - the first four hours notwithstanding – I’ve
ever had. The boys fell into each other’s
company shrieking with happiness and excitement, as they always do; the Girl
followed them everywhere, wide-eyed and giddy with excitement (buoyed along by
her crush on Jack). Hand in hand they
took exploring walks around the farm, followed dinosaur foot-prints over
fields, rode ponies, mucked out stables – all with a teeny swagger of independence. Because it transpires that the kids LOVE the
countryside. They were the happiest that day
that I’ve ever seen them.
As we left, the Girl looked up at
the properly dark sky, pointed, and asked: “What’s dem?”
“They’re stars, sweetheart.”
“Why we do not have ‘tars?”
“Because we live in London.”
“I want to live here.”
Me too, darling. Me too.
I TOLD you weeing in a diaper in a moving car is hard.
ReplyDeleteOh how I remember car journey's with young children! One of my boys needed a wee just as we were about to get in the car once, so I told him to just go up the wheel of the car not bearing the thought of having to go back inside - shame I later found out my neighbour saw the whole thing!!
ReplyDeleteMy brother lives in New York City and told me his daughter used to get excited to see "the star" they sometimes are able to view there. Milwaukee is not great for stars but we can at least make out basic constellations like Orion and the Big Dipper. One morning I happened to be outside in the summer at an unusual time (I think around 4 am?) and for some reason I could see many stars and they were brilliant, and my oldest daughter happened to be up to use the bathroom when I went in, and I told her to come outside with me. We stood in the middle of the deserted street and stared and stared. I'm still not sure what the difference was that particular morning that we could see so many stars, but I'm still grateful I got to share it with my daughter.
ReplyDeleteYou see, I live in deepest darkest Hampshire. AND my name begins with H. So, for a brief but glorious moment I thought you were coming to see ME. Next time, please. And I'll find you a house to live in whilst we're at it. Countryside (and stars) = lovely.
ReplyDelete