Wednesday 29 December 2010

Strawberry Milk

Ah, the dark days of the end of December. When no-one really wants to go in to work but grumblingly does so because the boss might be in, taking note of the empty desks and seeing if they marry to the annual leave sheet. When the sale scrummage is at its' worst, and women furiously pull £7 pairs of skinny jeans off the shelves like they're going out of fashion (which they are). When small children up and down the country have pulled over the Christmas tree, broken their new toys and are resorting to pummeling each other for entertainment - this is generally when their parents scream ENOUGH! and drag them to a soft play for the day.

For those who haven't been lucky enough to attend one of these places, soft plays are essentially padded cells the size of an aircraft hangar, filled to the brim with plastic crap and punchbags shaped like giant pirates and dubiously-scented ball pools with dribbling children leaking all over the bloody place. They are usually in some trading estate on the outskirts of town, are completely deprived of natural light, and are some of the only remaining places where you can buy chicken-in-a-basket with no sense of irony whatsoever. They are at once wholly depressing and highly anxiety-making, so I tend to attend only when I've had a few good days with my medication (you can see parents new to this experience reaching for the Prozac after about 12 minutes' exposure).

Nevertheless, children (obviously) love it, and the Axis are no exception. The problem is, they get so excited that by the time we get to the desk to pay our admission, they are usually already on the verge of getting chucked out. This time it was because the Kong kept lungeing for the till, presumably in the hope that whacking it, hard, would get him some kind of privileged access. It got him nothing, but got me a frosty glare from the clearly hungover teenage girl on the till. I simpered as best I could and willed the boys to look cute, not realising that the Pie was constructing some sort of artificial barrier across the entrance so that no-one could get past him and his brother. I grabbed both boys, assumed the position (one boy under each arm like a rugby ball) and marched into soft play hell.

Once in, I was relieved to see that there were literally hundreds of other boot-faced mums whose offspring were screaming and charging about like they couldn't believe their luck, and a few dads who don't generally come to these things, but as it's Christmas, well, it's all about the children, innit? Therefore, the idiot fathers had 'reserved' tables in the cafe by sticking their stupid anoraks and copies of the Daily Mail on the chairs, with the net result that there was nowhere free for the Axis and me to eat our lunch. In desperation I installed them at an empty-ish table, only to be faced with a red-visaged skinhead Meader, who reluctantly agreed to 'let' us sit there to eat our lunch, provided we didn't spill anything on his stuff. If he hadn't looked immeasurably harder than me, and the kind of bloke who'd have no problem whacking a woman in full view of a bunch of kids, I'd have told him he didn't own the table and to move his crap so we could sit down, but obviously, I didn't. I then spent lunch in a state of high anxiety about the Axis' propensity to chuck food anywhere they could, which reached a climax as I caught the Kong raising his arm high in order to dispense strawberry milk all over the assembled Meaders.

In my panic I grabbed the nearest thing I could think of to deflect this jet of lactal horror and amazingly, it worked. However, it soaked the Kong's back in strawberry milk, and, as a howl went up from the Pie, I discovered it had been his treasured Thomas the Tank Engine magazine that had paid the ultimate sacrifice and shielded us from the wrath of the Mead. I dried off the Kong as best I could and returned to the soft play, dumping them both unceremoniously in the ball pool and praying like mad they'd stay there. They didn't, of course. The Pie was off up Death Mountain (which is supposed to be for eight year olds up - the Pie is not yet four) and the Kong was ambling around, leaking from the nose and mouth and grinning hideously like Frankenstein's monster at all the mums and dads. Several times the following exchange happened:

Mum or Dad: What a cute little boy.
Kong: HHHHURUUUURRRGGHHHHNNN!
M/D: Awww. (Distastefully) Oooh! Did you know your little boy's got a wet bottom?
Me: It's not urine. It's strawberry milk.
M/D: Oh. Right. (Thinking: Yeah, and I bet his poo smells of roses, love).

When I noticed the Pie preparing to throw himself after a bowling ball towards some actual skittles, I decided to grab him and return him to the toddler area. Now, the toddler area has a new rule that you have to be under a metre tall to play in there. This is totally ridiculous as the Pie is well over a metre tall, but is only three, whereas some shrimpy kids I know have reached the age of five and not managed to surpass about two foot. The Pie and I approached the gate and - oh joy of joys! - it was now being manned by the same surly teenage girl whom the Kong had attempted to charm so ill-advisedly at the entrance. She clocked the Pie and smiled out of the side of a mouthful of metal.

'He can't go in there,' she announced smugly.
'Oh. Why not?'
'Because that's the toddler area.'
'But he's been in there before.'
'I know. But he shouldn't have been. And now he can't go in there.'
'Why?'

Now, I knew perfectly well that it was either because the Pie was too tall, or too old. But when faced with this sort of blank-faced refusal to back statements with logic, something strange happens to me. It used to happen to me at school when given pointless orders by dinnerladies. It happens now when some git at the council refuses to accept that my council tax has been paid, over and over again. And it was happening now. I knew what the reason was; I just wanted to make her say it. Awful, ain't it?

The Pie made to run off but I held firm to his shoulders. 'Sorry, why?'
'What colour wristband has he got on?'
'Silvery-coloured.'
'Well, silver can't go in there.'
'But WHY NOT?'

She was getting exasperated now. I could see the Kong, just beyond the gate, frolicking in the Elysian Fields of the ball pool. We stared at each other and finally she grabbed the Pie's wrist. Then she rolled her eyes at me.

'That wristband's not silver. That wristband is METALLIC GREY. Metallic grey can go in there. Off you go, sweetie!' I couldn't believe it. Then she continued: 'By the way, I think your other little one's wet himself.'
'He hasn't,' I said, realised I was losing Mum credibility as I spoke. 'It's strawberry milk.'
'Oh. Right,' she replied.

After another hour or so, during which time I busted not one, but two dads attempting to have a snooze on the bouncy castle, I declared the day over and began the slow process of ejecting the Axis from the building. I handed in the entry stubs and the soft play staff graciously conceded that yes, the Axis were in fact my own children (worse luck). Then I retrieved the shoes, coats, hats and bags and attempted to stick each item in a reasonably fixed position on each child. Unfortunately, so were the other hundred thousand parents in the place and it quickly descended into chaos. On the way out I noticed the Pie had a toy plane, a packet of crisps and some Milky Way stars in his pockets that he hadn't got from me. A tap on the shoulder revealed the items' true owner, who in turn handed me a Dora the Explorer whistle that the Pie had dropped. I thanked the mum in question, who said 'No problem. By the way, I think your little one's looking a bit wet in the bottom area.'
'He's not. It's strawberry milk.'
'Oh. OK.'

I managed to stick the Axis in the car when the phone rang. It was work, asking for the laptop I had taken home with me so I could work at home while I was off. Ha! It was still in the boot. Off to the other side of town, with the boys snoring like pigs in the back of the car. Excellent, I thought. I'll just nip in, drop the cursed thing off and then get home before they wake up.

Of course, it was not to be. The Pie awoke as I turned the engine off, screeched his displeasure, waking the Kong, and I had to drag them both into the office. As luck would have it, one of my least favourite colleagues was there to witness the ensuing carnage of my two screaming boys.

'Oh, we were wondering where that had gone,' she said, eyeing the laptop. 'You had it ages, didn't you?'
'NO,' I said, trying not to sound too defensive, whilst trying to keep a grip on the wriggling Kong and stop Noah jamming paperclips into the printer.
'Oooh, I think the little one's wet himself, poor little thing. Didn't you notice?'
I was about to explain, but I'd had enough.

'No! Has he really?' I said in amazement, and plonked the soaking child flat down on her desk, to a look of most satisfying horror from her and the rest of the office. Ha!

Tuesday 21 December 2010

Germicidal Maniacs

It's been a horrid few months at Axis Towers. The little boys have both had a selection of illnesses, which has involved much wiping, scrubbing and cursing on my part. All three of us are now resigned to spending Christmas with our senses muted thanks to congestion in the head. I'm not sure, however, that either of the Axis had much else there in the first place.

Yesterday was my birthday, and the Axis' father kindly volunteered to take them for the day so I could have lunch with my friends. How nice of him, I thought. What I didn't realise was that he was going out on the lash the night before, so it was really just a way of him taking a day off work and making himself look good. Thus he turned up two hours late and I was hopping mad, having received the only kind of present the Kong knows how to produce and not liking it one iota.

The Pie had been asking for cough syrup. Admittedly, he did have a rather persistent cough, so I succumbed. Unfortunately it made him instantly vomit up his breakfast. Cursing and swearing, I cleaned him, and it, up, and then made him a nice cup of hot Ribena while attempting to stop his brother from wading through the mess and redecorating the house with it. Towards the end of this episode, my brother rang up. My brother is young, single and childless, and is very proud of his very lovely and tidy flat. Rather unfortunately for him, he is also very devoted to his two hideous nephews, which puts him in agonising quandaries as he watches them lay waste mercilessly to everything in sight. I explained their latest outrage to him on the phone and could almost hear him wince and grimace.


'Your house sounds a bit...' he sounded nervous.
'What?'
'Well...(longish pause) gross.'


He's right, I thought. It is gross. And has a swamplike quality to it. The laundry has been mounting for months, and even though I do about three loads a day, the Axis manage to keep the pile growing with their emissions. The kitchen has absolutely no worktop space so constantly looks like a bomb's hit it. And the living room looks like a giant softplay after a weekend of kids' parties. And then there's the noise; the constant, relentless moaning (which is me) and the Axis' unremitting demands for drink! telly! food! Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!


'It's not that bad,' I say, wondering if he can hear the desperation in my voice. 'I mean, I have people round.' Hmm, yes, but only when the Axis have been at nursery and I've taken the day off to disinfect the place. Just then the Kong lurched into sight, grinned at me, turned puce and...

'What the hell was that?' asked my brother, sounding suspicious.
'Um...what?' I said, as innocently as I could manage.
'That...squelching noise. What was it?'
'Nothing!' I trilled. 'Gotta go -byeeee!'

A pox on that vile Kong! All the scrubbing in the world wouldn't sort this out. I rang my neighbour and asked her if I could borrow the magic carpet steam cleaner machine thingy. She brought it round and, while she was comforting the poorly Axis (for whom illness seems to be no barrier to consuming junk food and scaling the bookcases) I attempted to shampoo the carpet. Something had gone badly wrong with the magic carpet steam cleaner machine thingy, however, and the room was soon filled with the smell of week-old chicken gravy.

'Phoooooooar,' said the Pie, wafting the air in front of his face and screwing his nose up in camp disgust. 'Mummy, that stinks.' I rolled the rug up and shoved it behind the bins down the side of the house where it will stay til I can take it, and the five broken tellies in the garage, to the tip. After that I spent half an hour sat in the kitchen eating crisps and wondering how long I could hide from the Axis. I'm going to take myself to the tip if this doesn't stop soon.