1.  Clearing Off

2.  Cleaning Out

3.  Cheering Up

The First Day Of The Holidays,  Man took the boys to the Yacht Club last night. Give them a run around on the lawn, exhaust them and then we would get a lie in this morning, hooray.  Lie in my a***.  Son 1 aged 4y 9m was up and in the middle of the double bed before 6am. Eyebrowing madly http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2009/06/10/a-quiet-time-with-my-eyebrow/. I was grumpy. I’d worked late, was whacked out and wanted to sleep. He wanted to get up. An exhausting day loomed ahead, with fatigue bringing out the worst in us both… me fractious, him fizzing.  The Man took him downstairs to put the telly on.

The Parking Fairy gave me a space outside the house last night. So The Man decided to clean out my car.  My car is a source of deep shame.  It is so cruddy… sand, feathers, sticks, mud, smoothies on the upholstery, sundry berries, sweet wrappings, pieces of fruit peel, broken toys from party bags, more sand, more mud, dust, grime, smear, stains and crumbs. And most of the outside is covered in seagull poo, kiln-fired solid by the scorching heatwave.  Son 1 was keen to help, and so soon The Man had Henry the vacuum cleaner, and Son 1 had the upholstery wipes. And very industrious they both were. Then Son 2 aged 21m spotted them. “And me!  And me!”  I put him in the driver’s seat, knowing he couldn’t escape from there with me in the front and Son 1 in the back. The Man cleaned the boot.  I used glass wipes on the windows. Son 2 effortlessly commando-crawled into the back. He got the upholstery wipes and, concentrating very hard, cleaned the windows with them.  He liked the soapy smears.  Son 1 rubbed at smoothie stains.  I  did the windscreen. The wipes came up black as if I smoked.  Son 2 rubbed and rubbed. And then pulled all the wipes out of the packet. Son 1 said he wanted a drink and went back into the house. “Food!” said Son 2. Inside, I realised it was 1230. They have lunch at 12. Son 1 had pulled a chair up to the fridge and had removed a haul of two Petit Filous and two Frubes.

Neither of them would eat their lunch. I was fractious. “You eat at Nursery, and you eat for Wonder Nanny, so why don’t you eat for me?” I stomped. “You give us too much,” said Son 1.  He was right. But I didn’t let on, and went off in a sulk. The Man and I decided to go for a drive to get them to sleep and have some peace. It sort of worked.  We drove to the Beach Cafe and bought takeaway coffees, and then drove up to the Headland to drink them. Son 2’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at the boy in the next car who was eating an ice cream.  The man in the driving seat was leaning back, eyes closed, mouth open.  The woman next to him was reading. Comrades-in-parenting. And also knackered.

1.  I Can See You

2.  Pub Crawl

3.  Sand Dunes

So if Margaret Thatcher got by on three hours sleep a night, why wasn’t she permanently ratty or cold-ridden.  The Big City on Tuesday, 400+ miles round trip, 15 hour day including 8 hours driving.  Round a Wednesday Friend’s house last night; the carriage returned here well after midnight.  I was in with Son 2 aged 18m.  Now the mornings are light, he can see me lying in the double bed.  It doesn’t matter how still I am, how quiet I keep. When he wakes up, I get up.

We drove over to the Sandy Beach. Played Pooh Sticks on the bridge.  Got the tent up.  Sunny, but with a bitter wind, and a cold mist rolling in and out from the sea.  Son 1 aged 4yrs 6m was not on good form.  Not enough Mummy Time apparently.  He played in the sand in his sun suit. I could see from how he was standing that he was frozen, but left it to him to tell me he wanted more clothes.  In my defence, he’d said “no” to every single thing I’d suggested all day long. He pitter-pattered off the sand towards a beachside pub.  “I’m cold. I’m going in that warm cafe.”  I got his parkha on him, and followed him, asking him to come back so he could get dressed.  An out-of-season, barely-open, dim and dark beach bar.  But.  On the plus side.  Loos.  Coffee machines. And a sign saying children mustn’t be left alone on the play equipment.  There wasn’t any play equipment.  But maybe there is in the summer. 

By late afternoon I’d managed to work out that he wanted me, me, me.  So, still carrying Son 2 who was refusing to be put down, I suggested we explored the sand dunes.  “What’s a sand dune?” “You know, like the Crocodile Hunter. ‘Rolling down the sand dunes…’”  Son 1 loved the Sand Hills.  The grass was very scratchy, but he loved climbing through the fenced wire, he loved the little tracks, he loved going up and down.  He rolled, he scrambled, he scrabbled, he climbed. He Could See For Miles.  He wanted to poke in the remnants of illegal campfires. “Please be careful!  There are lots of sharp and dangerous things in sand dunes!” On the way back he told me he’d found treasure and wanted to take it home. ”It’s Not Sharp Or Dangerous.”  It was a brilliant blue hard plastic crescent.  A decorative bead from a bag perhaps.  On the way back Son 1 thumped Son 2 so hard in the back he fell flat on his face in the sand.  And I let him off, because he said he didn’t mean to be so rough, and he didn’t realise Son 2 would fall over.  Then he went and played in the tidal stream in his new flashing trainers.  And after that, there was No Ice Cream.