So, barely half way through the Easter holidays and the children are running wild. Sadly, so is their mother.
To be fair, it’s been a busy break so far. Full of all the requisite playdates and daytrips, afternoon teas and stay-up-late nights. Mindful of last half term (see ‘Broken‘) Mummy has been at pains to shield them (not to mention herself) from an undue onslaught of ‘stuff’. Hence treating ourselves to something of a free form (i.e. I have no idea what the f*** to do with them) day today.
I didn’t feel too bad about leaving Beefy and mates to maraud the village; playing football in the park, climbing trees, leaping rivers, scrapping, shouting and generally seeking out adventure. You know, anything muddy or disgusting (and likely to bring on tears from each fool participant at some point). The kind of activity that makes you wish you had a sheep dip in the garden rather than a chichi Farrow and Ball bathroom. Any time they got hungry, they simply headed to the nearest home to forage for snacks. Which were generally consumed to a chorus of burps, farts and burp/fart jokes. So far so feral.
As for Chicken, she headed off on a day out with a friend looking like the wilder and lesser washed cousin of William Wallace. Despite her protestations to the contrary, I swear she hasn’t brushed her hair in days. Such a simple daily ritual, she views taking brush to hair – much like washing (which she’s none too fond of either) – as an utterly pointless task. With the result that she not only looks wild but can often emit a faint odour of wet dog.
Whilst her older siblings were on the prowl, Pudding and I got down and dirty with a bit of gardening. Pud mostly with her arse hanging out of her jeans and nose streaming, which made for an interesting bathtime when combined with blackened, muddy hands. And which meant I was initially quite relieved when the opportunity arose for an impromptu play with a small friend and his brother, whose mother had clearly been equally blindsided by the day. Until said play date spiralled hideously out of control; leaving me knee-deep in dressing up outfits, musical instruments and remote control racing cars. With ‘Lick it Up’ by Kiss inexplicably playing on repeat from the iPad that I eventually unearthed from under a crusty storm trooper suit.
Oh, I know that all sounds bad. But, actually, feral children aren’t the problem. It’s me. The children are only doing what they are supposed to be doing i.e. having a bucket load of messy, rebellious, unfettered fun. But me? I should know better. I’m supposed to be a responsible adult ffs! But the beds haven’t been changed since I can’t remember when (which is not a great thought when I tell you Pudding has had a very sticky cold for the last week), our meals are either an odd smörgåsbord of leftovers (lasagna with fried rice, anyone?) or retrieved from the back of the freezer (where, frankly, they ought to remain), and I can’t tell you the last time I showered or washed my hair. Yes, I have truly gone back to nature. And it’s an uncomfortable thought to know that my natural state involves keeping a slovenly home and allowing my children to forage for their own meals (vegetables optional).
Result? I’m left pondering on school holidays as an exercise in ‘Survival of the Fittest’. And I’m not entirely convinced that I am a survivor. Well, not with any kind of grace, that is. So, please. Bring back the school run in all its glory. And a return to order in this den.