1.   Froggies

2.   Buggies

3.   Huggies

Really good, thank you, great weather, good journeys, no complaints, no complaints. Want some pictures? You’ll like this one: I dressed the boys for a 3am start in the UK, and we arrived at 12 noon our time and 25C, picked up the gleaming hire car and headed for the villa… Son 2 aged 2y 1m cried in the back, red spots burning in his cheeks, clearly overheated and distressed. “It’s ok, Son 2,” I kept saying. “We’re nearly there.” We stopped outside our destination. Vomit jetted out of him in pitiful spurts, swilling down his front and pooling in the car seat.  “I’s sick,” he said, hair plastered to his forehead.   Oh, but the swimming pool was lovely, the waiters loved children, the sun shone and the Bloody Marys racked up.  The Elegant Aunt and Golfmad Uncle had given us their timeshare, where we’ve stayed before, but had booked themselves another villa a few miles away to see the boys. “You’ll think it’s a bit Footballers’ Wives,” laughed the Elegant Aunt as she showed me around their new find.  Oh dear. I didn’t. I thought it was lovely.  Really lovely.  I didn’t dare tell her.  So we swam and went to the playground and the beach, and then this morning we trailed along the paths towards the hire car, and the boys spotted frogs in the water through the gardens. And I had a massive Pang, because we Just Don’t Get Enough Time Together As A Family.  And then I was Positive, because I know how lucky we are. And I am full of Holiday Resolutions which will Improve Our Lives.

Son 2, sitting in the back,  sang a song about his Ollday. Each verse finished on “Orl day long,” and Son 1 aged 5y 1m and I clapped each time.  Then he started to cry. “I’s sick,” he said.  “We’re nearly there, Son 2,” I said, mentally risk assessing. Garbage In = Garbage Out. He hadn’t had enough breakfast for anything untoward to happen.  The Man piled the trolley high with two suitcases, a sailbag, a hand-luggage-on-wheels-case, two car seats and assorted bits of carry-on stuff, including a Thomas The Tank Engine wheeled suitcase and an Early Learning Centre farm.  He zoomed off to return the hire car.   We paused in Departures. Son 2 threw up. Magnificently.  Great quantities of milk and bits which even I could smell.  I blotted him madly with muslins from the nappy bag, failing to notice that he was sitting in puddles of it in the buggy.  Son 1 had Euros from Golfmad Uncle in his pocket, and whined for the Sweetie Stall.     The Man returned, I broke open a case and found clean clothes. We checked in, sent the stinky buggy into the hold and sprayed ourselves in Wall-E scent from the toy bit of Duty Free.

The flight was a Total Nightmare.  Son 2 is a psychotic flyer and I Refuse To Go On A Plane With Him Again Ever.  It was worse than this: http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2009/05/17/the-land-of-the-sand/  But it was only two and half hours in a 12 hour trip, there was a sachet of Calpol they didn’t spot in the nappy bag and we dosed him with that. But next time it’s Medised.  On the way we gave Son 1 his first trip to McDonald’s. A Happy Meal. Doesn’t like burgers, doesn’t really do stringy chips, but liked the tomato sauce and the toy.  Son 2 kept up the jeopardy with “I’s sick! I’s sick!” but we put Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on the portable DVD and he seemed to forget. Back home we unpacked. And I have a Triumph. We bought too much wine out there and couldn’t drink it all. So I brought it back.  I am a Member Of Mumsnet.  We can Solve Problems.  In the suitcase, in the hold, and it didn’t break.  Wrapped in clingfilm, a carrier bag each, two of The Man’s tee-shirts which I hate so wouldn’t care if we had to throw them out… and the particular stroke of genius of which I am very proud: Son 2’s swimnappies.  One at each end of the bottles. And one turned inside out on either side in case the worse happened.  6 Euros Over There will be Very Nice Over Here.  And Kim, who is keen on the brand, and has been kind enough to comment, at last I can give you your heading…

1.  Losing My Religion

2.  Shiny Happy People

3.  Everybody Hurts

I’ve just read a Sunday supplement piece about a businesswoman who says her spare time is spent “relaxing with the children.”  A dazzling light has broken through the heavens and rays are streaming down.  I think relaxing with the children would solve my entire life.  My spare time is spent cleaning up after the children, nagging the children, cooking for the children, refereeing the children, yelling at the children and hoping and hoping they’ll fall asleep so I can sit down.  This morning, they would have slept in till 0830, only someone changed the clocks. It has been a very long day indeed. I offered Son 1 aged 5y 1m a trip out, but he wanted to stay in, watch telly and make cakes.  I will Share Time with them, I thought. I sat down. Son 2 aged 2y 1m climbed up on the table with the glass top. “Get down,” I said. “That’s dangerous.” He ignored me. I picked him up and put him on the ground. He climbed up again. “No,” I said. “It’s dangerous.” When he got up for the third time, I went downstairs to the kitchen, Refusing To Pay Attention To His Behaviour. I made fairy cake mix. I mixed yeast for bread-making.   The boys trailed downstairs, pulled chairs up to the worktops and bickered. I struggled with the dough. ”If it’s a bit sticky, add some more flour,” said Annabel K.  It was liquid.  We poured half a packet of bread flour in.  I gave two splodges to Son 2, and 2 to Son 1.  Son 2 ignored them and ate butter from the packet with his fingers. Son 1 tried to make animal shapes like the picture, but just superglued his fingers together.  I put his chair next to the sink so he could wash his hands. Son 2 was up there in a flash.  Rubber gloves, sponges, cups, knives and tubs were all flung in.  I took him upstairs and he screamed and squirmed in protest.

We watched “Big.”  Many many years ago, The Man and I were Tom Hanks fans. Way before Philadelphia. Way before his films got meaty and meaningful.  “Big” was always a favourite, and I’d bought the DVD cheap and never watched it.  I told Son 1 the story outline. “A boy wishes he was Big, and his wish comes true.” The film started. Son 1 got his first sight of Josh, aged 12. ”He’s already Big,”  he said, giving a little window into his world which has stayed with me all day. He lived the story: ”Can he change back?” every five minutes till I put him out of his misery. At the salient point: “Is he going to stay Big?”  And “Why doesn’t she make a wish too?” as Josh’s girlfriend runs after him.  “What would you wish for if you found that machine?” I asked. “I would wish for every day to be my birthday.”

Spaghetti hoops and home made bread rolls for lunch. They ate the spaghetti hoops. Nanna came round and we iced the fairy cakes.  I gave the boys dolly mixtures - a gift from Nanna last time - to use as decorations.  Very few made it on to the cakes. They iced and they drew, oblivous to the sprinkles stuck to their faces like multi-coloured five-day stubble. They ate cakes for pudding after tea, and were high as kites when I took them upstairs for bed.  I bathed Son 1, got him in his pyjamas and cleaned his teeth. I bathed Son 2, got him out of the bath and he hid under the towel to play “boo,” like normal. He came out, giggling, burped, and then threw up all over me, getting my hair, ear, arm and trousers. It was fish for tea, and it stunk like seal vomit. “Clear it up, it’s horrible,” said Son 1. I gathered up soiled towels and clothes, showered, and changed into my pyjamas. There was a loud thump from the bedroom. Son 2 had tipped a Christmas Cactus over on the carpet, breaking the plant and scattering compost and plants over the floor. I cleared that up as well.