So, I stumbled slummily through the last half term – working half of it and spending the other two days being shamed by the sight of irritatingly competent daddies wrangling gaggles of children with total equanimity. Not this time around. Oh no. I determined that I would be a holiday goddess. The mutha of all entertainers. An activity queen. I would fight for the right to be smug.
Not for us a week of chilling in front of the TV or ensconced in the glorious peace of iPad childcare. No dreary household chores. And not a dentist, optician or vet in sight. Instead: we have cantered cheerfully through bike rides; racked up miles of day trips; museums by day, museums by torchlight; glorious dog walks; play dates; baking; bowling; a cinema treat and a LOT of afternoon tea. Thus I have been able to look those half term hero daddies wearing necklaces of children in the eye, and hold my head high with the yummy mummies of my acquaintance. Oh yes I bloody did. My children have collapsed into bed each night without protest, and slept like, well, babies. I was on it, across it, all over it. Name a preposition and I was it.
And yet. Reflecting on a week of frenzied fun-making, I realise that this reformed working mummy may well have gone a bit too far. They are, quite simply, knackered. And, frankly, a little bit frightened by the intensity of it all. It’s not what they know. I’m guessing they’ve got so used to my haphazard, hit-and-miss approach to mothering that waking up to this shiny, bright, well-organised, good-humoured psychotic mummy machine is more than a little unnerving. And it carries its own penalties.
Take this evening, for example. After a day of cricket camp and soft play fun I took pity and let them chill in front of the TV for an hour. Whilst I whipped up a delicious home-cooked casserole that they devoured like starving skinny-ribbed hyenas. Anyway. By 6.30pm they were whirling round the sitting room playing a boisterous wrestling game involving suffocation by cushions and laughing hysterically fit to pee. By bathtime they grew maudlin, started telling me how much they love me, really really love me, and needed cuddles. And when bedtime hit they all had dark circles round their eyes and were showing every sign of a…erm…hangover. Omigod, yes? I had got them pissed. By cheerfully adding whole bottle of red wine to said casserole.
Learning from my mistakes (of which there have been many) next half term I will revert to the usual seat-of-the-pants, last-minute outings and multiple pyjama days. Feed them a diet of cucumber and goddam Twiglets. And I’ll be drinking all the wine myself, thank you very much. It’s wasted on children.