Ain’t No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

Free lunch maybe not, but coffee, yes.

I couldn’t bear the thought of yet another trip to the swings yesterday. That sinking feeling of Groundhog Day spurred me on to venture further afield and a few clear tantrum-free days gave me sufficient confidence to attempt an excursion with the Maclaren and buggy board. (My arms were still a little sore from Monday’s explosion in the park and subsequent fireman’s lift home – Jess kicking and screaming under my arm while I tried to manoeuvre the buggy with the other hand.)

I thought we’d keep it nice and simple and just go to Southbank. Apart from Jess asking to go to the café for juice pretty much as soon as we arrived at London Bridge, it was a really nice morning out. Perfect for toddlers: train ride; boats and river to look out; loads of space to run around by City Hall; and loads of cafes.

We finished with a wander around Borough Market, which is potentially a nice, cheap morning out in itself, depending on how much will power you have. Of course, the more realistic outcome is that you’ll end up spending the equivalent on bread and cheese as you would for entry to a theme park and a hotel for the night…but it will be artisan bread and cheese lovingly prepared by virgin hand-maidens in outer Mongolia.

We stopped at a café and the ridiculously chirpy barista gave me my coffee for free. I’m not quite sure why as he had limited English and a very thick accent but mutual smiling and nodding seemed to convey the offer of complimentary beverage and my subsequent thanks. Who says London’s an unfriendly place?

Taking the Rap

There’s nothing like a nice picnic in the park on a sunny day...

Unless that is, you’ve just spent an inordinate amount of time unpacking food, blankets and children only to find yourself cosily ensconced between a school trip and a family of ASBOs.

So there we were, Finn trying to gorge himself on grass and serviettes and Jess rifling through the bag for anything that contained EU regulation-defying sugar quantities – all pretty normal so far.

Then the impromptu hip hop gig began, as the bare-chested Vanilla Ice impresario started trying to rap along to Snoop Dogg. Can you rap out of tune? I’d never really considered it until my ears were tortured by his excruciatingly bad karaoke. His girlfriend seemed suitably impressed and I tried to distract Jess from the more colourful language:

‘What does muthaf**** mean mummy?’, is not the type of question I envisioned having to answer just yet.

He continued assaulting our eardrums as a seemingly never-ending line of school children returned from the kiosk with ice creams. They all sat down close enough to provide the ultimate in toddler torture – watching someone else eat ice cream when you’re not allowed one.

It was definitely time to go home: just the one final hurdle of squeezing past a mum and her toddler. It was a bit tricky as the pavement was narrow and she was slurping from a can of Stella while her two Staffies strained on their leads. I tell you what though – transfer that Stella to an ice-cold pint glass and put it on a table in a beer garden and I’d be there!

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Toddler Scorned

It was all going so well. One of those mornings when you think you’re on top of things: that it’s really not so difficult to get two children ready by a certain time.

I had it all under control. The sun was shining, they were playing my tune on the radio and I was (somewhat smugly) multi-tasking to my heart’s content – feeding the baby with one hand, spooning a few cornflakes into my mouth with the other and directing toddler-dressing operations between mouthfuls.

And then, in an atom splitting instant, this precarious tower of domestic harmony collapsed around my ears and the happy scene became one of utter carnage.

Jess screamed that she hadn’t given daddy a second cuddle before he left for work. The ‘second cuddle’ is just the latest addition to an ever-increasing list of bizarre rituals that must be undertaken in order for the day to progress without a heinous toddler tantrum. As it’s a nursery day for Jess and I was trying to keep things moving in order to deliver her on time and without incident, I opted for ‘tantrum avoidance strategy’ on this occasion. This basically just involves trying to undo or resolve the problem – something ridiculously minor in the eyes of a rational adult but of monstrous importance to a toddler.

So, I left Finn with his mouth gaping like a fish as he prepared for another spoonful of Weetabix that wasn’t arriving and I dashed to the increasingly vocal Jess. I scooped her up and dashed out the front door to see if hubby had already unchained his bike and left – luckily he hadn’t so ‘second cuddle’ was administered and we went back inside. I let my guard down, assuming the calamity had been averted and shut the front door with a sigh of relief.

How could I have forgotten? Such a small thing; one of the first additions to the handbook of ‘bizarre toddler rituals’. Shame on me for not remembering that Jess has to shut the door every time we come back in the house, oh yes, in a very specific way, every single time. An ear-splitting screech told me it was too late to backtrack – too late to simply open the door again and give the neighbours another chance to see my pyjamas.

Within seconds she was prostrate on the floor, arms and legs flailing about, snot smeared all over her face and in her hair and absolutely no chance of getting to nursery for at least another hour.

I almost didn’t hear the crash in the kitchen above the din of the tantrum. I could see Finn in his highchair so went back to see what he’d dropped on the floor. Turns out he got fed up waiting for the Weetabix to come to him and I hadn’t pushed it far enough out of reach. It was now spectacularly decorating the walls, radiator and a good section of the hand-painted units.
How is that such a seemingly small amount of food can spread so far?

I don’t know about eating, this stuff must surely have any number of practical uses. It seems to dry instantly into an impermeable mass that no amount of wiping, rubbing or scraping can remove. I chiselled away with a palette knife as Jess continued her Sylvia Young Theatre audition in the hallway and Finn smeared his Weetabix winnings further into his scalp.

Only two more meals to get through today…

The House Viewing Incident

It was never going to warrant a feature in ’25 Spectacular Homes’ but it was nice enough and the owners had obviously gone to some lengths to hide any obvious deal-breakers.

I turned up five minutes’ late, pausing at the front door to regain some small level of composure, having marched the double buggy up a slight incline at a pace not conducive to remaining composed. An attempt to smooth down my hair and flap a bit of cool air under my heated armpits was interrupted by a glamorous estate agent swinging open the front door. She greeted me with that estate agent smile that does little to hide the fact that you’re being sized up to see if you’re:

a) Genuinely interested in the house, or just looking for something to do with the kids that doesn’t cost money.
b) Can afford the asking price.

The flicker of disappointment that crossed her face obviously meant she felt I failed on both counts but she did her best to hide it. She even offered to help me with the buggy despite only proffering one hand. This had been manicured to within an inch of usability and I decided it might be safer to leave the buggy outside.

The viewing was being shared with a heavily pregnant Italian woman and her stony-faced mother in standard issue black smock. As a rival potential purchaser I was given the once-over and we nodded to each other as the estate agent talked though the details.

I tried very hard to ignore Jess’s pleas that she needed a wee and told her to go and have look in the kitchen. She seems to enjoy the novelty value of trying out other people’s conveniences but it would appear that she was actually in need of bladder emptying, after all. She waddled back into the living room with her trousers and pants hanging around her ankles, asking where the toilet was. The estate agent gasped and the pregnant woman glanced nervously at her mother, her pained expression silently asking for reassurance that this wasn’t normal behaviour. Mother pursed her lips and shook her head; a defiant look that said this was definitely not normal and that her daughter’s prodigious offspring wouldn’t countenance the idea of acting like this.

Mother and daughter made a swift exit and the estate agent said she was sure the owner wouldn’t mind Jess using the toilet. Her furtive glance at the freshly laid cream carpet suggested she was more concerned by the alternative scenario and didn’t relish the prospect of trying to explain the lingering aroma of urine to the bemused vendors, on their return home.

I left Finn in the living room, spinning around on his tummy on the laminate flooring like a break-dancing tortoise and I scooped Jess up and plonked her on the loo. I was just about to drag her off again when a familiar odour set alarm bells ringing. Her gleeful shout confirmed my suspicions:

‘I need a poo as well!’

Unfortunately, the limited square footage of the house meant that the exclamation was not lost to the estate agent’s ears. A day of high-quantity and less than nutritionally balanced foodstuffs resulted in some rather noxious aromas permeating the downstairs rooms.

It’s strange; the estate agent never did call back with details of the other house that they’d just taken on…