Summer Holidays With Kids
Summer Holidays.
Stress free flight with drinks en route to your destination, beautiful sunshine, sandy beaches, peace and quiet when you want it, rowdy clubs when you fancy them, Sangrias on the beach, lounging pool side and floating up the swim-up bar on your lilo when you can be arsed to take a break from topping up your tan. Absolute paradise.
Then you have children.
If you are considering having children, please always bare in mind the following;
The child, singular, is a precious thing. A miracle of nature. The apple of it's parents eyes. A beautiful being that can melt hearts with one look from those big baby blues, and make the most anti - children person broody. They are lovely.
Children, plural, are arseholes.
Now when you have children, and you're insane, once a year you will head down to the travel agents, or look on the internet, and book yourselves a family holiday. If, like me, you have a screw loose, you will do this more than once a year. Be it a holiday abroad, a camping trip, a break in the lakes, or a good old fashioned British Holiday at Haven; the outcome is going to be the same.
New parents please beware - prior to going on holiday, regardless of how much of an angel he is at home, your child at some point is going to nick off nursery / pre school / primary school / secondary school, and attend a seminar at a secret location. This course is a comprehensive, easy to understand instruction on how to be a complete knobhead whilst on a family holiday. This is the one place that they will sit quietly, pay attention, and take in absolutely everything they are told.
In our house, I can't deal with the utter hell that is the 6 weeks prior to the holiday, hearing every night 'how many sleeps is it til we go on holiday? Is it tomorrow?' so I only tell the kids we're going on holiday as we are out the door.
Last year we went to Spain and Newquay with our little cherubs. We loved both holidays, but it doesn't change the fact that the journeys to both destinations were a total nightmare. So, on the back of that, this year I decided to book us on a proper British family holiday on a Haven caravan park in Wales, mainly because it's not too far away.
On the morning of our departure, I gathered all the boys in the front room and asked them if they had all been behaving. They all went deadly silent and looked extremely guilty. This wasn't a good start, and I was dreading what I was going to find upstairs. Despite this, I told them that we were off on holiday for the week. Then we got in the car and sauntered off on our holidays.
As any Mother of boys will tell you, a car journey with one boy is lovely. You can chat about trains, their favourite film, what they did at school etc. A car journey with more than one boy is like driving with gremlins that have water poured on them. Some of the arguments include 'He's looking at me' 'He keeps saying my name and I don't like it' 'His head is blocking the window' and my own personal favourite 'He farted in his hand and blew it in my face'.
After half an hour of this you are fully permitted to swig on the gin you snuck into the car in your personalised Love Island drinks bottle. After all, you've got half a litre to drink by 2pm so you'd better make a start. With the sound of the boys arguing and the husband shouting at the woman on the SatNav, your allocation that would take you up to 2pm is gone within 14 minutes.
A dozen toilet stops and countless arguments later, you arrive at your destination. You're glad that you've rented a private caravan as the queue for the resort check in is approximately 2 hours long, and you try to disguise your smugness for sympathy as Janice from Bootle screams at her 3 feral kids who are by now running round like rabid dogs.
You eventually arrive at your caravan and start the task of unpacking.
If you are anything like me, you will, as the Mother of the family, have packed for everyone. Everyone except yourself that is. Whilst unpacking, your children find a new topic to argue over - sleeping arrangements. The first bollocking of the holiday is issued as you threaten to make them sleep on the sodding roof if they carry on. Once you have finished unpacking, you make your way down to the main resort to plan your week. The kids find all the activities they want to do, and you notice that the entertainment for the evening is 'Risque' - a pop due from the eighties, billed as 'The best male / female duo this side of Widnes; Runners up on Opportunity Knocks in 1976'. Can. Not. Wait.
With all that done, there's only one thing for it.
You must now go to the pub.
Now ordinarily at home, one would be absolutely disgusted at the sight of Sharon sat in the Wetherspoons beer garden at 10.30am on a Wednesday with her 4 children; Chastity, Patience, Evoque and Utopia, (the latter two being named after the nightclubs they were conceived in) after she's cashed in her giro at the Job Centre next door, supping on pints of Strongbow Dark Fruits whilst her kids play at who can hit a bird with an ashtray first. As well as being disgusted, you are also rather jealous - she's bloody enjoying herself and clearly doesn't give a shit about what anyone else thinks. Go Sharon.
However, when on holiday, one is not only inclined to follow this example, but rather is encouraged to do so. Eleven in the morning at home is usually brew time at work; on holiday it is Special Brew time. Hoards of parents flock through the amusements to get to the lounge bar, load their children with a fruit shoot, bag of Quavers and 2p's for the machines, and make a start on the days alcohol intake.
By 8pm, even the most reserved of parents will be up dancing like an embarrassing Auntie at a wedding to 'Baby Shark', and trying her hardest to cop off with the guy dressed as 'Roary the Tiger' who, when he removes his mask looks like he should be on a list that's meant to keep him away from children.
The following morning, of course you have the mother of all hangovers, and have to do a roll call to ensure that you have returned to the caravan with the same number of children that you left with. (It helps if they're the same children, but the same number will suffice for now).
This is where Knobhead training phase one kicks in.
Usually at home, the youngest of the children will wake up at around 6am, with the other three following suit every hour. It eases you into the day of dealing with four little arseholes. Whilst on holiday though, they must absolutely simultaneously wake up at 4am, and make sure the whole caravan park knows about it. Your neighbours are absolutely furious, except Janice from Bootle who's doing the walk of shame from Roary the Tigers caravan, still leathered from the night before.
Because you're dreading the impending knock on the door from the neighbours telling you to keep the fucking noise down, you have to get up to keep the beasts quiet. Obviously, because he is a man, your husband will need more time to recover in bed from his day's drinking. After all, he hasn't been out since, well, last week, so he is out of practice. (You however aren't half as bad, because as we all know, all Mums stay at home drinking gin all day). You plug the older children into the Xbox, and put Peppa sodding Pig on the iPad for the baby. The bloody swine. (Peppa I mean, not the baby. Yet).
You now have the task of making breakfast. You can't possibly stomach cooking bacon, and eggs are an absolute no go, so out come the Frosties. You then set about showering your little bundles of joy.
Knobhead phase two.
One boy in the shower - one flushes the toilet in the other bathroom to make the water go cold. Next child gets in the shower, another flushes....... you get the idea. Second bollocking of the day dished out, and you now have to get the biggest child out of bed, get him fed, showered and dressed, and remind him that he is thirty sodding nine and is getting too old for this shit. When you have finished acting as a UN peacekeeper and there haven't been any deaths so far, you tidy up and head for a shower yourself, and warn ALL the males in the caravan that should they flush the toilet whilst you are in there, they will become even closer to the end of their lives than they already are.
You come out of the shower to see four boys and a husband sitting quietly around the breakfast table playing cards.
Somethings not right here.
You then go into the main bedroom to dry your hair and try to make it look to the outside world that you do in fact have a pulse, when you notice a smell coming from the en suite.
Knobhead phase three.
Upon inspection, you find that all three toilet trained boys, (and probably the husband too) have all taken your shower time to go and take their morning dump. Without flushing. After dishing out the third bollocking of the day, and them repeatedly telling you 'well you said not to flush!', you now have to actually deal with the situation. After several flushes and duals between the offending poos and the toilet brush, you realise that of course, the toilet is blocked. Great. You now have to call reception and ask them to send the maintenance guy round because you can't handle this one yourself. Of course, being the little tw*ts that they are, the husband and children make it abundantly clear to the guy that it was in fact you that has blocked the toilet; they have been sat playing cards minding their own business whilst you were in the bathroom having a massive poo.
You smile sheepishly to the guy and shoot a threatening glance over to your smug looking husband whilst deciding on where to hide his body later.
Once the toilet is fixed and you no longer look like The Elephant Man after a heavy night, you now set about getting dressed, when you realise that in the chaos that is packing for four boys and a husband, you have forgotten to pack any jeans for yourself. You pull on the leggings and t shirt you did pack, and head to the kitchen to make your breakfast. Out come the Frosties.... No milk. Unfazed, you reach to the cupboard to find the bottle of Smirnoff that you brought, and use that instead.
The day is getting better. You all make your way out of the door.
Knobhead phase four kicks in, and child one projectile vomits all over the caravan steps, which conveniently you were standing on at the time. You turn around to see him standing there with half chewed Frosties and milk all down his t shirt, and a big smile on his face.
You little shit.
After searching for the toothbrush that you are convinced he's shoved down his throat to make himself sick, you now have the argument with the husband over who stays with the sick child, and who takes the other three out for the day. You have to weigh up your options:
a) Stay with the sick child, clean up after him all day, give in to his 248 demands for food, drink, the tv channel changing, the blanket changing because the one he's got is too prickly, or it's too soft, or the air is too hot, or he doesn't like the bloody wallpaper.... BUT, you can drink in relative peace, or;
b) Take the other three non sick children out for the day to the amusements, fill them up with chips and Fruit Shoots, load them up with 2p's and send them to the arcades whilst you, well, you're going to go to the pub, obviously. You're on holiday so it matters not a jot that its 07:45 and you're ordering a large rum and coke for breakfast.
In a moment of stupidity, you go for option b.
Parents - ALWAYS CHOOSE OPTION A.
You head off out for the day full of optimism. What a knob.
You reach the activity centre where of course the boys want to do absolutely everything in the schedule, so you head to the desk to book them on everything from kayaking to fire building. Who thought that was a good idea?? Teach 12 year olds how to start fires?? After a moment of concern you wonder if it's Bear Grills taking the class; in which case it isn't all that bad. You receive the bill, and after consulting with the resident financial adviser who arranges to remortgage your house, you pay it. They had better like this.
Imagine your surprise when the staff tell you that you don't have to stay with the children; you can leave them with the activity supervisors.
Praise. The. Lord.
Now, what to do with your time. You could go and check on poorly child and the husband to see if they've burned the caravan down yet; you could go for a nice long peaceful walk; you could check out the local village and see what things there are for the cherubs to take part in whilst you are there.
You contemplate all of these things whilst ordering your third Vodka Red Bull of the morning. Each time you order, the bar man gives you a funny look, and you realise its only 08:30. Oops.
Two more drinks later and you're pretty merry, and decide to go and check on the children who are, by your watch, onto kayaking by now.
You get to the kayaking pool to collect them and see a sign saying the pool is shut. There are some concerned parents loitering about outside trying to look in through the window to see what's going on, but deep down you already know that it will involve your little sods.
Knobhead phase five.
A member of staff comes out of the pool area to inform all the waiting parents that all of the children that have taken part in the activity are being hosed down prior to going for a shower, and could we all please wait outside as it isn't safe to enter. The knot in your stomach tightens as you internally kick yourself for not staying at home with child number four.
After what seems like forever, the children start to make their way out. The waiting parents run and grab their offspring as if they've just come back from war, hugging and kissing them and asking whats happened. You eye up your three, trying to weigh up which one is responsible. Child three is considerably paler than the other two, so he's your best bet. You ask him what he's done, but you don't need to. Gob of the North next to you shouts loud enough for all to hear - "He shit himself in the pool!"
Marvellous.
Absolutely mortified, you scan around at all the parents, searching for that one mum who always looks at you with that sympathetic smile, and the knowing 'we've all been there' look.
Nobody. Not one. No-one else's child has ever shut down a whole pool because they shit themselves in it.
Horrified at the whole situation, you drag your children back to the caravan, whilst child number two tells in great detail that child number three has a VERY bad tummy, and was 'shitting through the eye of a needle' in the pool. You rush into the caravan that has now taken on the resemblance of Hiroshima after the A Bomb dropped, and dash into the bedroom to start packing. Husband walks in to ask what the hell you are doing and have you lost your mind, and you tell him that you have to leave, right away. Grab your things kids, we're off.
After hurriedly packing everything into the suitcases, you make your way to the car like a celebrity coming out of a nightclub - sunglasses and a coat over your head to hide your face, and pack the cases in the back. Child number three decides he needs to go to the toilet again, so you pick him up and hold him at arms length and carry him to the toilet like a hand grenade that's had its pin pulled. Pants down and on the toilet just in time before with the smallest of farts, the earth drops out of his arse. At least he made it to the toilet you think to yourself. You stand up and see that whilst he made it to the toilet, he didn't manage to sit properly on the seat, and has sat so far back that the impact of the fart has led to the contents of his colon being spread all over the bathroom wall. There's only one thing you can possibly do here. Wipe the kid clean, chuck a clean pair of shorts on him. Get out the smart phone and take photographs to send to management after you leave, with the heading 'LOOK WHAT YOUR MAINTENANCE MAN DID TO OUR TOILET!! WE WANT COMPENSATION!!'
You rush to the car and pray that anther poo-nami doesn't occur on the way home.
Of course the usual road through to your house is blocked off due to all the sodding houses they're building, so you have to drive through the town centre. Whilst waiting at the traffic lights, you notice a smell. THAT smell. You look round to see that child number three is fast asleep - surely another blast would have woken him up? You look back at one and two in the rear seats; they're on their tablets being generally unsociable sods, but neither looks guilty. You turn to your fourth option. The baby. The precious little cherub who threw up on you earlier is sat with a big grin on his face, wiggling his bum in his seat. Oh god no.
The explosive nappy.
Horrified, and in a state of panic, you jump out of the car at the traffic lights to reach for the change bag behind your seat to get the baby wipes and try to minimise the blast radius of what is going to be the mother of all shitty messes. As you do this, the lights change from red to green, and cars behind start sounding their horns. With shit on your hands, you quickly shut the door, and wave an apology to the waiting road users. In what is presumably a state of panic, your husband floors it, and speeds off around the corner leaving you stranded on the street corner in the middle of the town centre. It's only now, stood on your own at the roadside with a minute to yourself to think, that you realise that all day you've had on the leggings and t shirt that your baby threw up on earlier that day, and your hair has taken on a the look of a haystack.
Looking up to the Heavens wondering what God awful thing you did in a previous life to deserve this, you notice the sign above your head, shining like a beacon of hope on a dark night; an oasis in the desert; the bright star guiding the three wise men to the birth place of Christ.....
JD Wetherspoon.
Tentatively pushing the door open, you slowly enter the bar and hope to God that nobody pays any attention to the woman walking in covered in vomit and shit and smells like a sewer. You approach the bar and wait for your turn to be served. For 10:30 in the morning the place is pretty busy. The barman comes over and asks what you'd like. 'Strongbow Dark Fruits please. Pint'. As he's pouring you go to put your hand in your pocket for money. Shit. You're in leggings. You don't have pockets. You don't have money.
From across the bar, you hear a woman say softly "I'll pay for that one Gaz, put it on my tab". As he puts the pint down in front of you, you look up and along the bar to see who the good Samaritan is that wants to pay for your drink. To your surprise, you see a familiar face. Its Sharon with Chastity, Patience, Evoque and Utopia in tow.
You nod a silent thanks, and you both raise your glasses with that look that only mothers know.
It is in that moment that you get it - she isn't a dole dosser, she isn't homeless, she isn't a scrounger.
She's just a mother who's come back from a fucking Haven Family Holiday.
To all the Sharons, and all the parents who are daft enough to tackle the great institution that is the British Holiday, we salute you!!
xx
Stress free flight with drinks en route to your destination, beautiful sunshine, sandy beaches, peace and quiet when you want it, rowdy clubs when you fancy them, Sangrias on the beach, lounging pool side and floating up the swim-up bar on your lilo when you can be arsed to take a break from topping up your tan. Absolute paradise.
Then you have children.
If you are considering having children, please always bare in mind the following;
The child, singular, is a precious thing. A miracle of nature. The apple of it's parents eyes. A beautiful being that can melt hearts with one look from those big baby blues, and make the most anti - children person broody. They are lovely.
Children, plural, are arseholes.
Now when you have children, and you're insane, once a year you will head down to the travel agents, or look on the internet, and book yourselves a family holiday. If, like me, you have a screw loose, you will do this more than once a year. Be it a holiday abroad, a camping trip, a break in the lakes, or a good old fashioned British Holiday at Haven; the outcome is going to be the same.
New parents please beware - prior to going on holiday, regardless of how much of an angel he is at home, your child at some point is going to nick off nursery / pre school / primary school / secondary school, and attend a seminar at a secret location. This course is a comprehensive, easy to understand instruction on how to be a complete knobhead whilst on a family holiday. This is the one place that they will sit quietly, pay attention, and take in absolutely everything they are told.
In our house, I can't deal with the utter hell that is the 6 weeks prior to the holiday, hearing every night 'how many sleeps is it til we go on holiday? Is it tomorrow?' so I only tell the kids we're going on holiday as we are out the door.
Last year we went to Spain and Newquay with our little cherubs. We loved both holidays, but it doesn't change the fact that the journeys to both destinations were a total nightmare. So, on the back of that, this year I decided to book us on a proper British family holiday on a Haven caravan park in Wales, mainly because it's not too far away.
On the morning of our departure, I gathered all the boys in the front room and asked them if they had all been behaving. They all went deadly silent and looked extremely guilty. This wasn't a good start, and I was dreading what I was going to find upstairs. Despite this, I told them that we were off on holiday for the week. Then we got in the car and sauntered off on our holidays.
As any Mother of boys will tell you, a car journey with one boy is lovely. You can chat about trains, their favourite film, what they did at school etc. A car journey with more than one boy is like driving with gremlins that have water poured on them. Some of the arguments include 'He's looking at me' 'He keeps saying my name and I don't like it' 'His head is blocking the window' and my own personal favourite 'He farted in his hand and blew it in my face'.
After half an hour of this you are fully permitted to swig on the gin you snuck into the car in your personalised Love Island drinks bottle. After all, you've got half a litre to drink by 2pm so you'd better make a start. With the sound of the boys arguing and the husband shouting at the woman on the SatNav, your allocation that would take you up to 2pm is gone within 14 minutes.
A dozen toilet stops and countless arguments later, you arrive at your destination. You're glad that you've rented a private caravan as the queue for the resort check in is approximately 2 hours long, and you try to disguise your smugness for sympathy as Janice from Bootle screams at her 3 feral kids who are by now running round like rabid dogs.
You eventually arrive at your caravan and start the task of unpacking.
If you are anything like me, you will, as the Mother of the family, have packed for everyone. Everyone except yourself that is. Whilst unpacking, your children find a new topic to argue over - sleeping arrangements. The first bollocking of the holiday is issued as you threaten to make them sleep on the sodding roof if they carry on. Once you have finished unpacking, you make your way down to the main resort to plan your week. The kids find all the activities they want to do, and you notice that the entertainment for the evening is 'Risque' - a pop due from the eighties, billed as 'The best male / female duo this side of Widnes; Runners up on Opportunity Knocks in 1976'. Can. Not. Wait.
With all that done, there's only one thing for it.
You must now go to the pub.
Now ordinarily at home, one would be absolutely disgusted at the sight of Sharon sat in the Wetherspoons beer garden at 10.30am on a Wednesday with her 4 children; Chastity, Patience, Evoque and Utopia, (the latter two being named after the nightclubs they were conceived in) after she's cashed in her giro at the Job Centre next door, supping on pints of Strongbow Dark Fruits whilst her kids play at who can hit a bird with an ashtray first. As well as being disgusted, you are also rather jealous - she's bloody enjoying herself and clearly doesn't give a shit about what anyone else thinks. Go Sharon.
However, when on holiday, one is not only inclined to follow this example, but rather is encouraged to do so. Eleven in the morning at home is usually brew time at work; on holiday it is Special Brew time. Hoards of parents flock through the amusements to get to the lounge bar, load their children with a fruit shoot, bag of Quavers and 2p's for the machines, and make a start on the days alcohol intake.
By 8pm, even the most reserved of parents will be up dancing like an embarrassing Auntie at a wedding to 'Baby Shark', and trying her hardest to cop off with the guy dressed as 'Roary the Tiger' who, when he removes his mask looks like he should be on a list that's meant to keep him away from children.
The following morning, of course you have the mother of all hangovers, and have to do a roll call to ensure that you have returned to the caravan with the same number of children that you left with. (It helps if they're the same children, but the same number will suffice for now).
This is where Knobhead training phase one kicks in.
Usually at home, the youngest of the children will wake up at around 6am, with the other three following suit every hour. It eases you into the day of dealing with four little arseholes. Whilst on holiday though, they must absolutely simultaneously wake up at 4am, and make sure the whole caravan park knows about it. Your neighbours are absolutely furious, except Janice from Bootle who's doing the walk of shame from Roary the Tigers caravan, still leathered from the night before.
Because you're dreading the impending knock on the door from the neighbours telling you to keep the fucking noise down, you have to get up to keep the beasts quiet. Obviously, because he is a man, your husband will need more time to recover in bed from his day's drinking. After all, he hasn't been out since, well, last week, so he is out of practice. (You however aren't half as bad, because as we all know, all Mums stay at home drinking gin all day). You plug the older children into the Xbox, and put Peppa sodding Pig on the iPad for the baby. The bloody swine. (Peppa I mean, not the baby. Yet).
You now have the task of making breakfast. You can't possibly stomach cooking bacon, and eggs are an absolute no go, so out come the Frosties. You then set about showering your little bundles of joy.
Knobhead phase two.
One boy in the shower - one flushes the toilet in the other bathroom to make the water go cold. Next child gets in the shower, another flushes....... you get the idea. Second bollocking of the day dished out, and you now have to get the biggest child out of bed, get him fed, showered and dressed, and remind him that he is thirty sodding nine and is getting too old for this shit. When you have finished acting as a UN peacekeeper and there haven't been any deaths so far, you tidy up and head for a shower yourself, and warn ALL the males in the caravan that should they flush the toilet whilst you are in there, they will become even closer to the end of their lives than they already are.
You come out of the shower to see four boys and a husband sitting quietly around the breakfast table playing cards.
Somethings not right here.
You then go into the main bedroom to dry your hair and try to make it look to the outside world that you do in fact have a pulse, when you notice a smell coming from the en suite.
Knobhead phase three.
Upon inspection, you find that all three toilet trained boys, (and probably the husband too) have all taken your shower time to go and take their morning dump. Without flushing. After dishing out the third bollocking of the day, and them repeatedly telling you 'well you said not to flush!', you now have to actually deal with the situation. After several flushes and duals between the offending poos and the toilet brush, you realise that of course, the toilet is blocked. Great. You now have to call reception and ask them to send the maintenance guy round because you can't handle this one yourself. Of course, being the little tw*ts that they are, the husband and children make it abundantly clear to the guy that it was in fact you that has blocked the toilet; they have been sat playing cards minding their own business whilst you were in the bathroom having a massive poo.
You smile sheepishly to the guy and shoot a threatening glance over to your smug looking husband whilst deciding on where to hide his body later.
Once the toilet is fixed and you no longer look like The Elephant Man after a heavy night, you now set about getting dressed, when you realise that in the chaos that is packing for four boys and a husband, you have forgotten to pack any jeans for yourself. You pull on the leggings and t shirt you did pack, and head to the kitchen to make your breakfast. Out come the Frosties.... No milk. Unfazed, you reach to the cupboard to find the bottle of Smirnoff that you brought, and use that instead.
The day is getting better. You all make your way out of the door.
Knobhead phase four kicks in, and child one projectile vomits all over the caravan steps, which conveniently you were standing on at the time. You turn around to see him standing there with half chewed Frosties and milk all down his t shirt, and a big smile on his face.
You little shit.
After searching for the toothbrush that you are convinced he's shoved down his throat to make himself sick, you now have the argument with the husband over who stays with the sick child, and who takes the other three out for the day. You have to weigh up your options:
a) Stay with the sick child, clean up after him all day, give in to his 248 demands for food, drink, the tv channel changing, the blanket changing because the one he's got is too prickly, or it's too soft, or the air is too hot, or he doesn't like the bloody wallpaper.... BUT, you can drink in relative peace, or;
b) Take the other three non sick children out for the day to the amusements, fill them up with chips and Fruit Shoots, load them up with 2p's and send them to the arcades whilst you, well, you're going to go to the pub, obviously. You're on holiday so it matters not a jot that its 07:45 and you're ordering a large rum and coke for breakfast.
In a moment of stupidity, you go for option b.
Parents - ALWAYS CHOOSE OPTION A.
You head off out for the day full of optimism. What a knob.
You reach the activity centre where of course the boys want to do absolutely everything in the schedule, so you head to the desk to book them on everything from kayaking to fire building. Who thought that was a good idea?? Teach 12 year olds how to start fires?? After a moment of concern you wonder if it's Bear Grills taking the class; in which case it isn't all that bad. You receive the bill, and after consulting with the resident financial adviser who arranges to remortgage your house, you pay it. They had better like this.
Imagine your surprise when the staff tell you that you don't have to stay with the children; you can leave them with the activity supervisors.
Praise. The. Lord.
Now, what to do with your time. You could go and check on poorly child and the husband to see if they've burned the caravan down yet; you could go for a nice long peaceful walk; you could check out the local village and see what things there are for the cherubs to take part in whilst you are there.
You contemplate all of these things whilst ordering your third Vodka Red Bull of the morning. Each time you order, the bar man gives you a funny look, and you realise its only 08:30. Oops.
Two more drinks later and you're pretty merry, and decide to go and check on the children who are, by your watch, onto kayaking by now.
You get to the kayaking pool to collect them and see a sign saying the pool is shut. There are some concerned parents loitering about outside trying to look in through the window to see what's going on, but deep down you already know that it will involve your little sods.
Knobhead phase five.
A member of staff comes out of the pool area to inform all the waiting parents that all of the children that have taken part in the activity are being hosed down prior to going for a shower, and could we all please wait outside as it isn't safe to enter. The knot in your stomach tightens as you internally kick yourself for not staying at home with child number four.
After what seems like forever, the children start to make their way out. The waiting parents run and grab their offspring as if they've just come back from war, hugging and kissing them and asking whats happened. You eye up your three, trying to weigh up which one is responsible. Child three is considerably paler than the other two, so he's your best bet. You ask him what he's done, but you don't need to. Gob of the North next to you shouts loud enough for all to hear - "He shit himself in the pool!"
Marvellous.
Absolutely mortified, you scan around at all the parents, searching for that one mum who always looks at you with that sympathetic smile, and the knowing 'we've all been there' look.
Nobody. Not one. No-one else's child has ever shut down a whole pool because they shit themselves in it.
Horrified at the whole situation, you drag your children back to the caravan, whilst child number two tells in great detail that child number three has a VERY bad tummy, and was 'shitting through the eye of a needle' in the pool. You rush into the caravan that has now taken on the resemblance of Hiroshima after the A Bomb dropped, and dash into the bedroom to start packing. Husband walks in to ask what the hell you are doing and have you lost your mind, and you tell him that you have to leave, right away. Grab your things kids, we're off.
After hurriedly packing everything into the suitcases, you make your way to the car like a celebrity coming out of a nightclub - sunglasses and a coat over your head to hide your face, and pack the cases in the back. Child number three decides he needs to go to the toilet again, so you pick him up and hold him at arms length and carry him to the toilet like a hand grenade that's had its pin pulled. Pants down and on the toilet just in time before with the smallest of farts, the earth drops out of his arse. At least he made it to the toilet you think to yourself. You stand up and see that whilst he made it to the toilet, he didn't manage to sit properly on the seat, and has sat so far back that the impact of the fart has led to the contents of his colon being spread all over the bathroom wall. There's only one thing you can possibly do here. Wipe the kid clean, chuck a clean pair of shorts on him. Get out the smart phone and take photographs to send to management after you leave, with the heading 'LOOK WHAT YOUR MAINTENANCE MAN DID TO OUR TOILET!! WE WANT COMPENSATION!!'
You rush to the car and pray that anther poo-nami doesn't occur on the way home.
Of course the usual road through to your house is blocked off due to all the sodding houses they're building, so you have to drive through the town centre. Whilst waiting at the traffic lights, you notice a smell. THAT smell. You look round to see that child number three is fast asleep - surely another blast would have woken him up? You look back at one and two in the rear seats; they're on their tablets being generally unsociable sods, but neither looks guilty. You turn to your fourth option. The baby. The precious little cherub who threw up on you earlier is sat with a big grin on his face, wiggling his bum in his seat. Oh god no.
The explosive nappy.
Horrified, and in a state of panic, you jump out of the car at the traffic lights to reach for the change bag behind your seat to get the baby wipes and try to minimise the blast radius of what is going to be the mother of all shitty messes. As you do this, the lights change from red to green, and cars behind start sounding their horns. With shit on your hands, you quickly shut the door, and wave an apology to the waiting road users. In what is presumably a state of panic, your husband floors it, and speeds off around the corner leaving you stranded on the street corner in the middle of the town centre. It's only now, stood on your own at the roadside with a minute to yourself to think, that you realise that all day you've had on the leggings and t shirt that your baby threw up on earlier that day, and your hair has taken on a the look of a haystack.
Looking up to the Heavens wondering what God awful thing you did in a previous life to deserve this, you notice the sign above your head, shining like a beacon of hope on a dark night; an oasis in the desert; the bright star guiding the three wise men to the birth place of Christ.....
JD Wetherspoon.
Tentatively pushing the door open, you slowly enter the bar and hope to God that nobody pays any attention to the woman walking in covered in vomit and shit and smells like a sewer. You approach the bar and wait for your turn to be served. For 10:30 in the morning the place is pretty busy. The barman comes over and asks what you'd like. 'Strongbow Dark Fruits please. Pint'. As he's pouring you go to put your hand in your pocket for money. Shit. You're in leggings. You don't have pockets. You don't have money.
From across the bar, you hear a woman say softly "I'll pay for that one Gaz, put it on my tab". As he puts the pint down in front of you, you look up and along the bar to see who the good Samaritan is that wants to pay for your drink. To your surprise, you see a familiar face. Its Sharon with Chastity, Patience, Evoque and Utopia in tow.
You nod a silent thanks, and you both raise your glasses with that look that only mothers know.
It is in that moment that you get it - she isn't a dole dosser, she isn't homeless, she isn't a scrounger.
She's just a mother who's come back from a fucking Haven Family Holiday.
To all the Sharons, and all the parents who are daft enough to tackle the great institution that is the British Holiday, we salute you!!
xx
Comments
Post a Comment