If you’re into Festivals and all they entail – this is in no way ‘mud slinging’ at your life choices and how you spend your spare time and hard earned cash. Call me ‘Fanny McFuck-Off Festivals’, but I bloody hate the things.
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Clearly, mid summer holidays, my brain’s been a tad too frazzled by “can I have something tw’eat?” for the 63rd time in a morning, “I’m bored!” but “Eugh, do we have to go out?!”, followed by “I’m heading into the road as I can see Pikachu!” As I thought it might seem like a good idea to let the kids take charge for half an hour. Lesson learnt… DON’T! This is what happens when you let the kids have their own way! I’ve clearly been feeding them the wrong “favourite dinner” for a while and I’m not sure why I’m so thrilled that Hugo thinks LA is a country, but at least I know when Bruno’s birthday is!
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You’d think that at 31, having birthed 3 sprogs, been married then divorced, mortgaged up, 2 step kids and numerous pets – that I might consider myself a fully fledged adult. WRONG! Like many people I’ve asked on this subject, it’s not that I feel like a kid, but I certainly don’t feel like I’ve reached the peak of my grown-up-ness. Worringly, even my mum – a whole generation of adultier-ness above me, still doesn’t feel there yet. But perhaps being a grown-up isn’t a state, a bit like happiness, it’s fleeting moments; moments where it really feels as though I’ve got my shit together and I can do this – without doing a silly dance, asking for a straw with my coke or throwing a (discreet) tantrum when our local ice cream parlour runs out of cherry flavour on a particularly I-need-cherry-kinda-day ).
So, here’s my list of moments when I feel top of my adult game – in the vague hope, some of you might also feel the same about our severe lack of acknowledging our responsibilities and always hoping there will be an adultier adult to deal with the crap post fan-hit.
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I usually shy away from blogging about the latest trending subject matter – fodder to soon become tomorrow’s chip paper’s just not my bag; neither, until the last few days was politics. But after Friday’s revelation that our fine and glorious country will be leaving the EU, many seem quite up in arms, upset, offended and brutally disappointed with the outcome. Panic not, I’m not about to wade into a political rant. This is not to berate or applaud either side of the argument, yes, we’ve all seen the enviable diplomacy of the Facebook friend that says “we all need to move forward together despite the decision”. This is simply to pose the questions asked by the generation this outcome will potentially affect the most – our children. On being informed of the Brexit on Friday morning, something which I’ve done my best to inform my otherwise pretty clueless sons about, these were the responses given from the 8 and 9 year old.
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There’s an unspoken understanding between parents on planes: Do whatever the hell it takes to get through. Be it seat swapping, sweet giving, playing peekaboo over a seat, snorting the innards of a sherbet lemon in a vague hope of some legal high or simply accepting that normal rules will not apply for the duration of the flight. This seems to be if your children are aged 1, 10 or 33. If you’ve ever been a parent on an aircraft, you just get it. Then there’s those pesky people that fill up the family-void spaces on a plane: The pre-kidders or the people that made the life-choice to never have the little darlings (is it too late to make this choice?!).
Here’s just some of the questions and comments I would like to put to the pre-kidders who occupied 34A and 34B on our recent travels…
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