The Birthday Party

Gilby reached the milestone of double figures.

We are a long way beyond the class party these days. Yes, they were horrendous, but at least with the saving grace of being all over and done with in an hour and half. 

But, no. To celebrate, his treat of choice was to:

Take a group of friends to a trampoline park. 

Straight from school on the last day of the summer term. 

A suitably unhealthy burger and chips to follow the bouncing. 

Then all back to our garden for what is breezily termed a 'camping sleepover'.

I try not to begin from a 'deficit perspective' but there seems no other way to approach this given

the significant number of potential, actual and unforeseen pitfalls to this plan.

1. Eight children at a trampoline park.

Now, I don't know what the odds are in relation to number of visitors per injury, but I figured that our chances of ending up in casualty were pretty high. In my head, it was only a question of where the first blow might strike. Our odds were susbtiantially increased because in a fit of what I can only describe as a combination of uncharacteristic generosity and utter madness, I had booked the two hour bouncing deal instead of the single hour option. I had also failed to notice that the 'deal' was actually called 'Hungry Bouncers' and included a 'free' hot-dog. That meant that we were actually filling the boys up with two forms of processed meat in rapid succession. If they weren't going to end up in hospital through bouncing then perhaps the long-term health problems were going to get them there eventually.

2. Decibels

The noise quality in trampoline parks - and I don't mean to do them down specifically; it is generally the same in all 'soft play' establishments - is of a particular quality and timbre that generally leaves me wanting to crawl into a quiet hole after extended exposure to it. Note previous point in relation to the two, rather than one, hour deal.

3. The curse of the Golden Arches.

As a vegetarian I am not generally a big fan of the chains of 'family burger restaurants' with which we are all familiar. I object to the use of the term 'restaurant' when you are required to order at a counter, wait for your food, carry it back to plastic immovable chairs and tables, forage for condiments and then clear up after yourself, even though the person sitting at the table before you clearly didn't. And I object to the term particularly since they are not licensed to sell alcohol at all, let alone in the numbing quantities required to survive this sort of situation. When I say 'situation', I mean the kind of practices that boys eating burgers together seem to enact. Especially when they aren't actually that hungry because they have been bouncing for two hours and been given a giant hot-dog. Gilby is generally the nicest-mannered of my children, but somehow he feels the need to engage in burping, farting, food-throwing, food-wasting and fighting antics that would be unacceptable on any other day of the year, but somehow become tolerated when in the company of other people's children. Which brings me on to point 4...

4. Other people's children 

What is it and what is it not ok to refuse people's children? Three of the boys were very polite. At least to begin with. And three were not. I started getting all judgy at the lack of please and thank yous from the outset. And then there was the asking for things that had not been offered. A round of slushies were included in the two hour deal. I'm aware that I keep using the word 'deal' as though I had obtained some sort of bargain on the day. I would like to disabuse everyone of that idea and explain that in fact, attendance for eight children for two hours at aforementioned  trampoline park was extortionate and virtually required remortgaging. Nevertheless, some rejected the slushies and said that they wanted squash or coke or milk or anything that they could think of that wasn't a slushy. Grumpily, I said no and referred repeatedly to 'the deal'. Dear Jaydn - not quite enough vowels, surely? shrugged off the rejection

5. Sleep

What are the chances of that many boys in a tent, for some of whom it was their first sleepover, actually getting some sleep? The answer is, unsurprisingly, very little. Marshmallow toasting (supervised by Hearth-father while I went in search of the wine that had been so absent from our 'restaurant' experience) went on until quite late, and it seems that an injection of sugar at bedtime is not exactly conducive to 'settling down'. The torrential downpour after days of glorious sunshine didn't help. The fact is they didn't settle down. I sent Hearth-Father out at regular intervals to shush them, with fairly minimal results. The cricket game began at 5am when the rain stopped. At 5.15 the neighbour from two doors down was banging on the front door to complain. Saturday morning did not, therefore, begin in a terrifically positive way, and I did not come out of the exchange terribly well.

6. Inappropriate moral lessons

This one was definitely unforeseen. In an effort to reestablish relations with Two Doors Down, we decided it would be a good idea to send Gilby round the following afternoon with a box of chocolates and a rehearsed apology. Missing nothing, and still in his formative years, we appear to have inadvertently warped Eddie's already fragile moral code. He piped up, 'What? So she gets a present for coming round here and shouting? Are you serious?'

Hot and Cold

It was a birthday weekend of sun and fun with soaring temperatures and 'Wanda' as our home from home for the weekend. (Wanda, being a VW camper van.) I'm not sure they were built for a family of five plus pet. It was a bit of a squash and a squeeze...

but the children slept with Hearth-dog in a tent annexe (which felt like Wembley Stadium in comparison) so all worked out beautifully. 

A forgotten sleeping bag complicated arrangements for Sunday evening, and it seemed odd to receive a winter coat as a birthday present on the hottest day of the year so far (though it was the one I wanted, not complaining.) 

On Monday we spent the day at Shoreham beach, and Gilby, never one to run from a challenge, was first to dive into the waves.

His bold action occurred as Hearth-Father exclaimed, 'That's freezing! Only a lunatic would swim in there!' 

'Time for a beach selfie,' said Hearth-Mother, desperate to capture photographic evidence of the whole family having fun together.

'No, Mum, I'm too cold,' protested Gilby through blue lips, goosebumps visible from twenty paces.

'Won't take a second, and then you can warm up.'

'Ok, but I might be blurry..' shivered Gilby.

Carry on Camping

We've bailed out of a camping trip in Dorset because the weather's too terrible and I wasn't born to camp.

We're going to return tomorrow, but I needed a night of hot bath, clean children and just not being damp for a little while.

GCSE results day tomorrow, too, so I have the perfect excuse: I need to be home. So, whilst here, I thought we'd better start on the holiday homework.  I was a good mother; Gilby is researching the Victorians, and we took a visit to the Lyons bookstore and the local library. We worked on how to use an index and created a template for his project together. He has a total of six books, including the Horrible Histories. Sorted. Plenty to keep him busy. Gertie was also busy doing her homework and Eddie was engrossed in Lego. Perfect. Some time for me.  I set them off.  A few minutes later, prompted by Gertie's giggling, I came back to find this:

I think the Victorians probably made me feel like this too until my thirties, so I can't blame the little chap. And he's been sleeping in a tent for the last few nights, so probably a little short of kip...but I strongly suspect he won't win any prizes for this particular assignment.



Currently reading: Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo

Festival Fever

The summer of festival fun has begun. First stop was the Hay Festival.

"There's no such thing as fun for all the family," is, I believe, a Jerry Seinfeld quote, and something I have thus far held to be true.

Going to the Hay Literary Festival was a twenty year ambition of mine and when I finally  made it last year, I determined to bring the family back to experience it as soon as I could.  Accommodation is at a premium in the little town during festival time and we found ourselves with no option but to camp. Our few family camping forays have proved...somewhat challenging, so when I was offered an upgrade to a 'yurt', I seized it.

The first day passed in a frenzy of activity. There was face-painting and cartwheel-turning and letters to climb and dinosaur stories and and books to be bought and ice-creams to be eaten and Letters Live for Hearth-mother featuring performances by Sandi Toksvig, Stephen Fry and Jude Law. 

 

There was even, and this is where we get to the 'fun for all the family' part, a selection of West country ciders for Hearth-father to taste. Though 'taste' suggests a little more delicacy in consumption than perhaps might have been observed in reality.

We were all exhausted at the end of day one and I spent one of the best nights I've had for months - in the comfort of the yurt's double bed with cosy wood-burner at its foot.

Even more to do on day two, with writers to meet and journals to be wrecked and faces to be painted, and a pub-supper. See, something for everyone.

Then marshmallows to be toasted around a campfire before bedtime.

Two weeks until the Isle of Wight festival (though we are child-free that weekend, so it will be an altogether different experience)...

I love summer!



Currently reading: Cruel Summer by James Dawson

Carry on Not Camping

Easter 2015 was the time that Hearth-Mother decided it would be a Good Thing to have a camping adventure in the garden.  The little people had been looking for a good excuse to set up their 'dens' and there would be space enough to pitch a proper tent close by. It might even be considered 'glamping' given the proximity and availability of electricity, heat and lighting. She reckoned without the chickens, the commuters on the A29, the three-year-old's tantrum, a snuffling retriever and a Chinook helicopter.

Two sets of our friends are camping this Easter, and reluctant to join in since our last outing two years ago when I had to be chipped from a block of ice in the middle of the night, I thought a garden expedition would be a happy compromise.

It took one evening to pitch the tent so that everything was ready for the following night. Youngest, Eddie, came home from nursery in the filthiest, blackest of exhausted tempers, and refused to wait for his campfire supper. He fell asleep in a stroppy huff on the sofa.  One down.  Not the holiday bliss I had imagined.

Three of the chickens had 'escaped' from and were careering round the garden doing what chickens do, which is mostly to poo everywhere.  Hearth-father thought it was time their wings were clipped again.  My less rational explanation was that the sight of a large purple canvas erection next to their coop was enough to send them on the run.

Kempton got over-excited and got in to the bin, so that as well as chicken excrement, our campsite was also now littered with a week's worth of decomposing rubbish.

We cooked beans and sausages on the campfire, followed by marshmallows. In a fit of guilt at all the fun we were having I decided to wake up Eddie to see if he wanted to join in.  Big mistake. The pre-supper tantrum was just a warm-up for the screaming and relentless sobbing all over the garden he had planned for the rest of the evening.

Just as we got all three sleeping (and overcame the difficulty of Eddie getting his bottom all the way into his sleeping bag) a pair of helicopters decided to circle low over the house with searchlights, so that we felt like we were in the middle of a James Bond film at the very least.

By the time we settled everyone again the roaring traffic of the A29 was just about to begin for the morning rush hour. (Or so it seemed!)  I was under this strange illusion that we lived in a rural area, but it transpires that our main road is more like the M1 first thing in the morning. The over-efficiency of the heater meant that the previous year's defrosting wasn't necessary; in fact we all woke up with a bit of a sweat on.  One that had absolutely no relation to the amount of red wine I felt it necessary to consume in order to sleep five in our four-man tent.

'Again, again!' said the kids in the morning, like demented Teletubbies.

But that nonsense is all over for another year, at least.

(Although I do, inadvertently, appear to have book a yurt for us all to stay in for the Hay Festival next month.  Whoops...)



Currently reading: A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh

If You Go Down to the Woods Today...

The bank holiday weekend has been one endless stream of...fun.  Although, as Jerry Seinfeld says, 'There's no such thing as fun for the whole family,' so possibly not all of us were enjoying exactly the same moments.

Saturday was a birthday party for a four-year-old, and all three of my children were invited: joy.  This eliminated the opportunity for rows to break out over the fact that Gertie receives far more invitations to parties and functions generally than either of her younger brothers.  It was also good for Mummy, who didn't have to be in three different places at the same time (which is my usual weekend party trick).

Sunday began with a christening.  The service began at 10.30 and finished at 12.15.  This was long by any stretch of the imagination, even for mine who are used to attending Mass.  After about an hour Gilby turned to me looking quite pale.  'Mummy, I'm not feeling very well.  I need to get out of here. I'm....church-sick.'  He said it like it was a well-known condition, akin to car-sickness.  Something that would pass immediately, once one was away from the cause.  This, of course, would ensure that I couldn't counter with any suggestion that he be too ill to attend the christening party afterwards.  Clever, I thought.  Though judging by the discomfort on many of the adults in the surrounding pews, they too were suffering from Gilby's affliction.

It was a lovely party afterwards though, in glorious sunshine in the garden of a local pub, and, as predicted, Gilby was soon cured.  We couldn't stay all afternoon, however, since we had to get back and pack up for our camping trip.  Yes, camping trip - our first time.  We were camping in the woods near the house of some friends.  It had all seemed like such a good idea when we decided to it on the spur of the moment the previous evening.  We bought a tent on ebay and picked it up that morning.  No chance to test it out or even check it was all in one piece.  Actually, it wasn't, but that was by design.  Two bedrooms, no less.  No en suite though.

So, a bit of back-to-nature for us.  A roaring camp fire, toasting marshmallows, three in a bed, (the lack of a ground-sheet for the outer living area meant that poor old Gilby couldn't sleep in his cot) last minute checks for lurking gruffaloes: all a great adventure.  Mummy froze, though, in the night, and was too worried about everyone else worrying to drink as much wine as she ought to have done.  I wanted to keep myself under the limit in case a midnight flit back to civilisation was required.  In fact, this couldn't have happened in any case, as the flat battery on the car in the morning testified.  Much huffing and puffing and pushing was required before we were eventually rescued by a digger and jump-leads.  It was not the finest moment. Still, it was an experience.  The kids came home filthy and desperate to do it again.  Mummy will have a couple of glasses of red and think about it.  Cheers!