Wednesday, 29 October 2014

The curse of half term

Okay, so as a rule I do not write about the cherubs, if for no other reason than it sits in direct opposition to my claim that I am NOT a 'mummy blogger'.

And I am not. A 'mummy blogger', that is. See my profile (left) if in any doubt.

The brush that still tarnishes some of us who have moved waaaaaaay beyond writing about offspring (if, indeed, we ever wrote about them in the first place, as in my case) and yet eludes those PR approaches who insist on sending out the catch-all emails.

You know the type. The "for your little ones, aged six and under..." notes that ping into your inbox and are immediately deleted with vigour.

Let me put it on record as a future reference: current ages of children are eleven, ten and nine. They get older with every passing year. You do the maths.

Which brings me to half term.

Half-at-my-wits-end term.

The one where you read all three kids the riot act at breakfast, before heading out, and again in the car for good measure. All before eight in the morning. Impressive stuff. Lots of shouting (me), hand waving (me again), palpitations (ditto) and glum faces (them). In one ear and out the other, hence the repetition. Three times and counting.

The one where you have to lug them around the supermarket with you - because they have already eaten you out of house and home and then some - and hand one of them the scanning gadget, one the list, and the other the trolley, and then make a bee-line for any aisle where they cannot see you in the hope that the store manager does not contact social services. Lots of accusatory glances from little old ladies. I couldn't even be arsed to smile feebly seeking forgiveness. I scowled back and offered to sell them three children. Cheaper than the sherry they were coveting and domesticated to boot. Bargain, I thought. No sale though.

The very same half term where you pitch up at Herne Hill velodrome and leave all three kids to do lap upon lap upon lap upon lap of the circuit knowing that for five hours they will be kept a) engaged, and b) contained. All for the bargain price of fifteen pounds including bike hire. Packed lunch extra. And I got to hog a table at local bakery for three-and-a-half hours solid with free WiFi, for the cost of a coffee and pastry. Get me and my (almost) freebie loading.

So, what does that say about my parenting skills? Not much.

Except that I need more work. Of the paid kind.


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