The Smack

We took advantage of our baby-sitter hosts (AKA Grandparents) and buggered off to the US for the weekend.  As you do. Actually, that makes it sound alot more spontaneous than it was, whereas in fact it was a finely-tuned piece of logistical craftsmanship, months in the planning, weeks in the anticipation, and days in the execution – 18 hours both there and back, with 30 hours downtime in the interim.  That’s what you get for going to North Carolina for a wedding. 

And while the wedding and the social element were definitely worth it – not to mention being child-free for three days, as well as actually getting to read my first book of the summer – the parental repercussions have been fairly enormous.  Firstly, the combination of jet-lag and exhaustion do not a happy patient mummy make.  (Little, other than wine, sleep, and a morning without children – preferably in that order – can be guaranteed to make this mummy happy or patient.) Added to that, the Boy’s behaviour has gone from manageably mischievous to downright impossible.  By all accounts he was impeccable for the entire weekend, so either he was storing up all the evil for our return (welcome home, Mommy Dearest) or it’s now payback for our having had the gall to actually leave him alone with people who love and cherish him for a few days. Either way, we are now suffering.  Or rather, I am; the Man has gone back to London, leaving me to deal with it solo. 

Anyway, all this is by way of background to my confessional:  he received a smack yesterday morning.  That’s a nice way of putting it, isn’t it?  It’s as if I had nothing to do with it, it just sort of happened of its own accord.  The Boy, however, had a different take on things. 

Boy (Sobbing, and highly indignant):  You HIT me!!!

Me (Rolling my eyes at the histrionics):  I smacked your hand.

Boy (With mounting hysteria):  YOU HIT ME!

Me (Thinking: “You say tomato...”):  Calm down, I just smacked your hand.

Boy (Convulsing slightly):  YOU HIT ME! Naughty naughty Mummy!  Into the naughty corner RIGHT NOW!

Silence.

Boy, through his sobs:  It’s VERY sore.

Me (starting to feel some guilt):  Is it?  Can I see?

Boy (holding aloft one hand, then quickly realising it’s the wrong one, and offers the other):  VERY sore.

Me:  I’m sorry.

Boy:  Why you did HIT me?

Me:  I smacked your hand because I told you three times to sit at the table for breakfast and you ignored me.  Then I told you it was your final warning and you ran away.  Then when I tried to pick you up you kicked me in the leg.  So I got cross and angry.  That’s why I hit smacked you. 

Boy:  I’m CRYING and BAWLING.

Me:  I can see that, and I'm very sorry. But you were very naughty.  And I’m tired, and got cross.

Boy:  Not to get cross.  Use your words, not HIT. 

Me:  You’re right.  I should have used my words. I won’t do it again.  I’m sorry. 

Boy:  No more HITTING me!

Me (possibly jumping the gun slightly):  I promise I won’t smack you ever again. 

Silence.

Me:  Are we friends?

Boy sniffed in what I assumed was a conciliatory fashion.  I sloped off feeling like crap –only 9am and already I’d failed as a parent – I HIT MY CHILD! -  and passed the following half hour watching the kids torment the dog, and listening to tales of the most horrific Church-sanctioned child-abuse on the radio, that I managed to feel simultaneously worse (what sort of monster hurts a child??) and slightly better (it was just a smack...) about myself. 

Despite the not terribly auspicious beginnings, the rest of the day was quite nice. We played football on the street, visited neighbours’ cats (where the children demonstrated that their skills of torment extend across a variety of species), took a nap together, the Boy smearing his grimey hands all over my face while telling me he loved me, had a picnic dinner outside and then gallivanted about (me) in a wheelbarrow (him) for what felt like several days, but was in fact about 40 minutes. 

By the time bedtime rolled around, I had all but forgotten my earlier transgression.  Then the Man telephoned to say his goodnights. I held the phone up to the Boy, and could hear the Man ask him how his day was.  The Boy stared off into space.  “Tell Daddy about your day,” I urged.  “Tell him all the nice things we did.”  He paused, then cleared his throat. 

“Mummy HIT me,” he said, rubbing his hand.  The wrong hand, I should point out. 

“It was a SMACK!” I shouted, thus confirming everyone’s view that I am unstable as well as violent.

A while later, after I’d told the Boy the sad tale of the doggy who was so naughty that he bit his mummy, and his mummy didn’t think (or use her words) and scratched him back, but only because she was really very cross and tired, and in fact she loved him more than anything (his response was “BAD MUMMY DOGGY DOO-NING SCRATCHING”), I made the following.  I had pinched the recipe from the New York Times on Sunday, so at least some good came from our trip away. 

Strawberry-Basil Ice-Pops

Or “Popsicles” to give them their US (branded – and no doubt copyrighted) name.  The NYT gave 12 recipes – three each of fruity (strawberry-basil, cherry-vanilla, peach-ginger), creamy (orange cream, chocolate-chili, banana-peanut), savory (avocado-coriander, tomato-cucumber, coconut curry) and boozy (grapefruit campari, fennel-pernod, mojito).  I’ve only made the first, but plan on getting around to the others if the sun ever shines, or I ever host another dinner party (or both) again. Or if I just need a drink at 9 11am and People Are Watching.  

You Need:

• 2 cups (about one large punnet) hulled and quartered strawberries
• 3 tablespoons sugar
• 2 tablespoons lemon juice
• 2 tablespoons basil leaves (leave out if you think the small people won’t love the taste;  I didn’t give mine the choice, and they didn’t seem to mind)
• Some water

You also need a food processor or blender, and either ice-pop moulds, or paper cups, and wooden sticks (or plastic, but wooden is more authentic)

Bung everything in the food processor / blender, and drizzle in enough water to the whizzing mix until you have a fine, thick slush. 

Fill the moulds / paper cups to your desired amount.  Freeze for an hour, then stick in the wooden sticks and freeze for at least another hour. 

To release the ice-pops dip the moulds in hot water for a few second and twist the stick. 

Perfect as an antidote to a smarting, smacked hand.