Last week it was my birthday.
I got two pairs of slippers; I think I have officially reached old age. I’m OK with that. They are nice slippers.
It also happened to be half term for my sister, who is a teacher in a school with enviably long half term holidays, and presumably for lack of better things to do she suggested that we do something with the kids.
As Daddy (who happens to have the same birthday as me – more on this at a later date) was working, I thought it sounded like a nice idea. Pre-children, we used to take the day or even the week off for our shared birthday and do something ‘fun’ but obviously this doesn’t happen anymore, because once you have kids your own birthdays lose their significance somewhat and your concept of fun changes. One day there will be lie-ins and breakfast in bed on our birthday; it is not this year. Compared with the possibility of spending my birthday at a sad soft play drinking crap tea and worrying about rogue poos, a family day out appealed.
|My other birthday present, drawn by the big one. Flowers, obviously.|
Somehow it was decided that we would take the kids down to my parents’ in Sussex, stay the night there and then spend my birthday making our second trip to Peppa Pig World. With the children, obviously.
We left home later than we should have, which was entirely my own fault.
The kids therefore ate late and predictably, the small one, having blinked for three seconds in the car at ten to three didn’t want to go to sleep. After forty minutes of sitting in the dark, gently humming whilst waiting for him to drop off and deeply regretting not charging my phone in the car, I gave up and brought him back downstairs where I handed him to my mum so I could get on with complaining about him on the internet. No matter, he can stay up with us and come to bed with me, thought I. We had a curry delivered, and he was happy enough as long as he was being cuddled and fed poppadoms, whilst he giggled the insane laugh of the crazily tired child.
(if you didn’t sing that to the tune of Papa Don’t Preach I don’t know what’s wrong with you)
Meanwhile, the big one, good girl that she is, went to sleep easily with no complaints.
It was only upon going to bed that a quick check on her and a cursory sniff revealed bad news.
Yep, residing in the potty in her bedroom was a poo the size of a shoe which she had obviously done before taking herself back to bed without disturbing us. This meant one thing; I had to wake her up to clean her bottom (her arms are too short to do an effective job, no matter how hard she tries bless her), and in doing so I unleashed the beast. Man, she was not happy about the situation. She was even less happy about the prospect of sharing a room with her auntie and therefore she came in with me too.
Now, a double bed might be big enough for two adults, and a one- and an almost-three-year-old might not be as big as a grown adult, but they can sure take up some space.
Add into the equation the pillow fortress you have to build to ensure that no one falls to their doom when writhing in their sleep and you are left with very little room indeed.
There were three in the bed and the little one said Ma Ma Ma, Ma Ma Ma, and the big one sobbed and hit the small one in the face, and they all rolled on top of mum and mum said screw this and tried to sleep on the floor.
We had about two hours of blissful shut-eye before the small one woke up crying; the sad, pathetic sob of an ill child. Medicated, he went back to sleep but I, starting to feel rather unwell myself, couldn’t and instead stayed awake long into the night, primarily wondering how the hell I was going to function the next day, thinking about how I was going to ruin the day (because you know, my mum and dad were surely so looking forward to meeting Peppa again) and how I wouldn’t be able to see my husband on our shared birthday because I would be too tired to drive home.
Upon eventually falling asleep around 6am, my irrational thoughts manifested itself in my dreams during which my parents and my sister were all really mean to me for not wanting to do pig world on no sleep. Harsh.
It was about an hour later when my kids gave me a cheery hello by way of smashing me in the face; I’m not entirely sure which one it was but they were swiftly deposited on Nanny and Grandad and I grabbed another hour or so in bed, at which point a loud child woke me up and even with my head banging, my nose blocked and my voice sounding decidedly mannish from what I was sure was about to evolve into laryngitis, I thought I CAN DO THIS.
And so we did, and I spent my birthday at Peppa Pig World, where toddlers all over the country wish that they could spend their birthdays. I then drove us back to Kent, where I wished Daddy a snotty happy birthday before drinking no wine, drugging myself up on Night Nurse and going to bed.
|This kid is having the time of his life|
Still, it was definitely better than the year I had swine flu, or the one where we were all ill and stayed sick until March. I’m definitely hoping for better than that.
Next time someone suggests a big family day out, I’ll sleep on it.