Where have I been?

Two words:  Half.  Term.

Yes. Again. And frankly, the less said about it, the better. I did, however, manage to cunningly avoid a fair chunk of it by packing the Boy and Girl off to Sweden with their daddy (“Quality time”, I assured him, booting them all out the door) and heading to Dublin with just the Baby for company.  How easy are babies??  I suppose if you are the parent of only a newborn, you probably don’t think they’re very easy at all, but borrow my kids for a few days – fuck it, for a few hours – and you’ll soon realise that one is a piece of piss.  I came back feeling like I’d been at a yoga retreat for a month (the sort of yoga retreat where you can drink as much as you like [and you like, very very much].) 

The rest of the week included the following parenting gems: 

• A FORTY MINUTE queue to get into the Natural History Museum*, in the rain, with a shouting angry Boy and a whinging weepy Girl (not to mention a snappy shouty Mummy – my apologies to the queue-jumpers.  Actually, I’m not apologising; again I say: FUCK OFF TO THE BACK OF THE QUEUE)
• An ensuing THIRTY-FIVE MINUTE wait to get in to see the Dinosaurs exhibit (the only reason anyone with children goes to the NHM, as far as I can see), the exciting part of which takes 30 seconds to walk past, then you find yourself at the end of a VAST information-laiden space, where the only thing stopping you from fainting on the floor with hunger is the thousands of people and pushchairs and toddlers
• Constant toilet trips through hoards and crowds in museums and play areas, up stairs, around corners, through tunnels, up more stairs... On one memorable occasion (memorable only for its HORROR) someone – an older, (much) bigger boy – bumped into the Boy and made him stumble.  “That boy is NAUGHTY!” he roared;  “Tell his mummy!” “Shhh, just ignore it, I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose.” “HE DID! HE COMPLETELY DID!” “Ok fine, well he’s gone now, so let’s just get going.”  Except he wasn’t gone, and the Boy, without missing a beat, punched him in the nuts as we walked past, gangster-style.  Seeing the kid double over I said – “did you just hit him?”  “Yes,” he responded, off-handedly. “He shouldn’t have pushed me”.  I am horrified and impressed (begrudgingly) in equal measure. 
• A twenty minute walk (drag) in the rain to a cafe, whereupon the Boy dragged me into the toilet and subjected the older woman waiting ahead of us to a lengthy interrogation, culminating in the classic: “have you come in to do a wee or a poo?”  Unfortunately, the woman was American and did NOT take kindly to being asked such personal – “impertinent”, she called them – questions. (How do you explain the etiquette of “personal questions” to a stubborn 4 year old?  Because I HAVE to do something;  this morning he stopped an old lady on the street and asked her why her toenails were so long and why they were poking out of her (crumpled, holey) stockings. ARGH.)  
• Hearing the kids’ 5 year old (female) friend shouting “Uuugh, that’s disgusting”, and popping my head into the tv room to see the Boy racing around with his willy poking out over his trousers, saying “Touch it!  TOUCH IT! It doesn't hurt!”
• Ignoring both the Girl and the Boy of them for several minutes in a soft play area, then glancing up to find that they had in that time, quite industriously, chucked all of the balls from the ball room and into the middle of the cafe.  Have you any idea how many balls it takes to fill a soft-play area?  No, I didn’t either.  Their arms must have been whizzing like windmills in a storm. 

Anyway... it is all over now.  In a few days I might even have recovered. Coming up soon:  Legoland (How fucking brilliant is Legoland?  (during the week, when the sun is shining, and no one is around, obviously)) and the most delicious, piss-easy pasta recipe EVER. Hold on to your seats. 

(*going to the NHM in half term is, of course, just asking for trouble)