It’s half term and today was wet and windy. Having spent yesterday lounging around, watching TV and having a slummy mummy day I knew I would need to get the children out of the house today. Wet weather and restless children pointed towards soft play as the solution. I tried to resist it, I’m experienced enough to know that soft play on a wet school holiday day is a fresh kind of hell. A sensory torture worthy of breaking even the most saintly of mothers, and I’m certainly not she.
However the afternoon wore on and the children started to bicker and grumble. I knew that I had to do something or we wouldn’t make it to dinner time without tears (probably mine) and wrestling (why must boys wrestle?) So I took a deep breath, a valium (kidding of course) and packed the kids into the car.
As expected the place was heaving. A mass of brightly coloured plastic, sweaty noisy children and harassed parents. The noise levels were intense, it was as if every child in the place had been fed exclusively on blue smarties all day long and then released into the fray. Hyper, screeching, and oozing bodily fluids the children ran amuck.
It’s ok though because obviously I would get to relax at a table with a cuppa whilst my children play, right? Wrong. This situation does not occur until your youngest is at least three. I have a two year old. So I trail round after her. I slide down the slides, praying that my bum will not get stuck, since they look a little narrow, and I will not need rescuing like a beached whale. I brave the ball pool, hoping that today is not the day a child has had an accident (yes yes I’m talking wee or worse) unseen in amongst the balls.
After an hour or so of play I spend a stupid amount of money on fairly low quality food for the children’s dinner. Then we head home, the children for their bath and bedtime routine, and me for a couple of paracetamol and a sit in a darkened room.