31 January 2007

Not Such A Perfect Evening

As I wrote “Who knew parenting could go so smoothly?” I did wonder whether I was alerting some Mummy Monitoring Divinity to my smugness. When Chickie woke up at 1.30am, I thought perhaps. At 3.30am, probably. At 5.30am, definitely.

When I lifted my weary head from my soggy pillow for the fourth unfair time that morning, it was to prepare us for our weekly jaunt to The Flying Fortress. Fifteen percussion wielding toddlers later and I was awake. As I got down with my triangle to “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain”, I realised I may have been enjoying myself a little too much as Craddicus suggested that I might like to let Chickie have a go on the triangle. I think the teacher has a soft spot for me though as I’m very enthusiastic.

Simmie Six-Pack, Sydders the Space Hopper and the newly named, Craddicus were also in attendance. Craddicus was previously Sportacus but in a brilliantly cunning literary manuevre, I incorporated his surname with the ‘cus’. Genius. Incidentally, if anyone wants a Sportacus lookalike (he does backflips, forward rolls and has access to copious amounts of lycra), just contact his manager, me.

After all the fun, Poff and Chick were pooped as were their mummies. As they sat in their car seats staring into the promise of a dreamy land inaccessible to mummies, I instructed Luce to ensure they stayed conscious until we could transfer them into their cots in twenty minutes time.

Twenty minutes later, two very, very tired and aggravated babies arrived home. However, it seemed Luce’s warning to keep their eyes open and not fall asleep under any circumstances had scared them sufficiently that a further twenty minutes passed and neither had blinked, let alone closed their eyes.

As hideous as the prospect of two un-napped tots were we had no choice but to release them whilst we belatedly ate lunch. After Chickie bounced up and down on Poff’s tummy like a trampoline, we thought may be we should take them out into see if we could push them to sleep. Success.

We nipped into the travel agents to start planning ‘Holiday 2007’. I use the word holiday loosely as our first family trip to France last year taught me that I won’t ‘holiday’ in the true sense of the word until at least 2023.

As I longingly stroked the silky smooth surface of the 260g paper weight brochures to idyllic locations it was no longer deemed practical for a mummy­ to travel to even if she could afford it, I took a moment to mentally push the model on the front cover out of her hammock and imagine myself lounging between the palm trees.

I put the “never going to happen” brochure down and realigned my expectations. As I now came as a package deal, that, sadly, seemed a good place to start.

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