It’s day 3 (or is it day 4?!) of our two week holiday with a 7 month old and 2 and a half year old. It didn’t get off to a great start this morning when my husband told me he felt achey all over and shivery. He actually took paracetamol -martyr usually refuses so must be bad. Having given him no sympathy just sarcastic comments about it being fine that I’ve got to take both children to bloody breakfast, after no sleep because the feather duvet means he’s sounded like a fucking truffle pig with his snoring all night, absolutely fucking fine!
I leave him in bed, get us all washed and dressed in the loosest sense of the word. The usual cleaning teeth battle not worth it this morning; I was proud enough that between me and Peppa Pig (I love you Daddy Pig!) I managed to get B dressed without having a meltdown.
Huge bag on shoulder full of everything I can think I may need while I’m at breakfast 200 metres away from our room. Both in pushchair, despite usual back arching.
I feel like a supermum, pushchair parked, baby on hip, toddler on way to pancakes, I follow him grab a plate put it down and pile it with so many pancakes he’ll probably be sick but I can’t see our table from the buffet stand so this is a one buffet trip breakfast. I pour a load of honey over the pancakes to avoid the request when we’ve sat down, grab bread, smoked salmon (partially sitting in the now spreading honey), egg on the side. I allow myself a little wry smile of self pride.
Hmm – Can I fit a bowl full of yoghurt and porridge for E on this plate, yes I can, if B would just stop shouting “can I have juice, mummy you said I could have juice” louder and louder while pulling my leg. B, who can’t actually see the drink lever feels his way to fill a glass with so much orange juice it drips on the floor and I can’t do a thing. He goes to pick it up I put the plate down, grab it and take a few gulps (much to his delight) then hand it back to him to walk to our table quickly trying not to spill it. we were nothing to do with that sticky mess by the juice bar, nope sirry Bob, not me. I don’t know how that trail from the juice bar to our table got there either.
All bibbed up, jug of coffee on table, B silently stuffing face with pancakes and happily dribbling juice down the last pair of clean shorts we’ve got (I bought 6 pairs!), E happily being fed her yoghurt and I can even see the sea. It’s official I am bloody supermum, check me out.
“Mummy I need a poo poo”. “Really B because the toilet is downstairs”, “yep mummy it’s coming”. I jump up, poo poo coming usually means turtle head (but in a foreign country everyone’s stools are perhaps a tad looser), we didn’t have much time. I grab baby covered in yoghurt, wave bye bye to my only clean cardigan and grab B’s hands which feel so sticky you’d think he’d been rolling in the bloody honey. We make it with no sign of code brown in pants – phewee. He sits for a couple of seconds -” I don’t need a poo poo anymore mummy “.
Deep breaths, deep breaths, do not say out loud “are you f’in kidding me?!”.
“Can we go and play in the sand now mummy, please mummy please?”
Yes that would be a great idea lets go and roll in the sand after rolling in honey then I’ll take you back to the room to jump on Daddy….
Next day, I wake up to “is it morning time mummy?”, the sound of torrential rain and feeling like I’ve been hit by a double decker bus. Hmm maybe husband was poorly yesterday after all and now I’ve got whatever the lergie is. Happy fucking holidays!