Summer In The City: A Mini-Break to London

This week we are on holiday. Now, all burglars take note. Please, have a rummage and help yourselves to as many luridly coloured plastic toys as you can fit into your swag bag. I would personally recommend anything by vtech: they seem to have set their volume levels at that of a Slipknot concert but with less musical content. A must in every house.

Anyway, I digress, going back to the holiday with having been to France only a month ago in the company of a heavily expectant member of the family (who thankfully made it back to British soil with baby still in situ), we had booked a week off after the due date in order to make the pilgrimage south and welcome the newest member of the family. We had planned to spend the majority of the week with the grandparents in rural Shropshire, introducing our city children to the concept of country walks, wildlife and village fetes but with a brief foray into the big smoke to visit cousins new and old(er).

Country chic...

The first leg of country living was a success with unprecedented good weather and access to a garden sprinkler. Minutes of entertainment. The second leg involved an arduous journey into the bustling metropolis of London town where success was brief, intermittent and cruelly interspersed with prolonged periods in a car with no air conditioning that reached temperatures hotter than the sun.

The audience with the new babe as she wriggled, sighed and mewled to perfection (as only those days into their lives can do) captivated the toddlers' attention for at least 45 seconds before they were back to rough housing their, somewhat fatigued, uncle who had been weakened by the nocturnal demands of his progeny.

Minutes of entertainment...

Our next "adventure" took us across town to the Natural History Museum where the Big One was desperate to introduce the Little One to her "best friend" Butterfly- The T- Rex. There was much anticipation as we boarded novel mode of transport after novel form of transport; there was an actual Big Red Bus followed by a "Choo Choo" that went under the ground before boarding another that travelled above the houses. They were living their best lives.

When we finally arrived they ran straight in pointing to all the signs adorned with pictorial representations of the giant reptiles with cries from the Little One of "Mummy! Mummy! Dine-e-saw!" He trotted after his beloved big sister with complete trust that she was leading him to see something that would change his life forever. "Mummy! Mummy! Come! Come!" As we entered the darkened enclosure where "Butterfly" lived and she emitted a deep, prolonged roar he hurled himself between my legs gripping so tightly that I feared the sensation would never return. With pleading eyes raised he muttered "I a bit scared. No like dine-e-saw". We tried and failed to reassure him explaining that she was no more real than his toy Dog Dog, perhaps delivering two cruels blows in one day so we admitted defeat and went to buy ice cream.

Just terrified

Next on the agenda was a visit to the Queen's house, an absolute must in the book of the pre-schooler who has made the decision that an actor's life is for her, being that she hears this is the way to become a Princess. The toddler was easily swayed with images of Julia Donaldson's Ladybird on Holiday so back on the various forms of transport we went.

Four flights of stairs, three toddler tantrums, two cramped trains and one busy change later we were there. As I pointed in the direction of the gold embellished palace with the flourish of a magician's assistant I was greeted with a look of disdain: "Urgh, can we go home yet?"

So over it...

So back into our mobile oven we went just in time to sit in gridlock traffic before extending our journey by several miles in an attempt to rock the raging toddler into sleep, all to the musical accompaniment of "It's a Small World" on repeat, for 3 hours. 

Oh, if only it was.

Driving With The Brakes On: Having to Say Goodbye

On the 2nd of May we lost a member of the family and I was unexpectedly heartbroken. Whilst you may think me callous to question my degree of mourning when a member of family passes, I should point out that this particular member of the family was mechanic in nature. I lost my first car. 

At the grand age of 33, I had to part with the car I had had for 13 years and his name was Bartleby. Yes, that is right, I named him. He had one original panel (I'm not that good a driver) but he was in essence, the same; the ever constant in a life that had changed beyond recognition.

The only photo I have of my beloved car.
Excuse the hat.

He was gifted to me on the Christmas of 2004 when I was a medical student about to embark on the clinical element of my training. A time when I would be expected to move from the safety of the small town of St. Andrews to the bustling metropolis of Manchester and transport myself between various district hospitals and suburban GP practices. 

My parents were particularly cruel in their gifting and left me to open a single calendar whilst my brothers unwrapped gift upon gift under the glow of the Christmas lights. Within the calendar they had pierced the cellophane to insert the insurance documents which would reveal my substantial and unprecedented gift were I astute enough to open it. 

I wasn't. 

I waited.

And waited.

Eventually my mother asked me if i had inspected the many depictions of Audrey Hepburn to which I feigned interest and tore the cellophane off allowing the papers to flop onto my lap. I was ecstatic. As a "home girl" I was terrified at the prospect of leaving my family and Scotland, where I had lived since the age of 5, to venture south of the border with only my friends upon whom to rely. This mode of transport was a life line; an escape route in times of trouble and, boy, did he live up to the promise.

At two months old, Bartleby saved a life. It's a story that is not mine to tell but believe me when I say that, without him, I do not know how things would have panned out and I am forever grateful that I need never know. 

When in Manchester he ferried me from placement to placement and took me home when I needed. If you have ever wondered, a 175mile journey on the M6 in a 1.2litre Fiat Punto is less than fun unless you install your own personal karaoke booth. I would recommend Power Ballads and anguished facial expressions to maximise enjoyment. I would not recommend taking your eyes off the speedometre on the downhill as that is where he comes into his own and the Cumbrian police make an awful lot of money out of you for that. 

Whilst a student we, being Bartleby and I, crashed. I was pulling out from a minor to a major road and there was a blind corner. Sure enough, a boy racer tore into the side of me and I emerged unscathed in body but broken in spirit. A kind man in a three quarter length black woollen coat saw the incident and crossed the road to check I was ok, stopping the boy racer mid tirade and holding me while I wept snot riddled tears into his beautiful jacket until my boyfriend arrived. 

At 3 years old he saw me graduate...

When I moved to London for two years, he came with me (the car, not the stranger). He helped me move in with my then boyfriend with all the optimism of a fledgling adult. He then helped me move out of the flat and relationship with my then boyfriend (now husband- long story for those not in the know) having discovered that adulting is hard. He moved me to back to the North West when I bought a house and tried to forge a career in doctoring and shuttled me up and down from Edinburgh as I tried to maintain a relationship with the previous boyfriend who had been reinstated. 

From the age of 4 through 7 he ferried me between hospital jobs...

He moved North with us when we got engaged and continued in his role as karaoke booth and conveyance (but mostly karaoke booth). He saw me change career (which, having carried me through multiple breakdowns following the days of doctoring, he was very glad of) and embark on motherhood. He ferried me from appointment to appointment and held me while I cried about the baby I was going to lose, but then didn't. 

At 7 he saw us get married...

He watched as I cruelly exchanged him for my husband's car after my babies were born and we needed 5 door access. He took my husband to work and transported him from home visit to home visit, witnessing too many ambulances and untimely deaths as is the GP life in the deprived areas of Scotland. 

He worked hard. He was a hard working car and a true member of the family. He lived through so much with us and without him so many things might have been different.

At 11 he saw us become a family of 4...

Whilst I have written this about the car, I really write it for my parents. They gave me that car and without the car so many things may not have been. In all honesty, I may have not married the man I did, I may not have had the relationship with my grandmother that I enjoyed, I may not have had the friends I do now and I may not have felt the freedom to chose a career that made me happy. I know it was a tough decision, as with three children I was the only one to be gifted a car but I treasured that car and all the freedom it gave me; for 13 glorious years. 

R.I.P. Bartleby, we really loved you. 

Parallel Lives: How the Other Half Live Child Free

Now I am not one who enjoys comparing themselves to others; I tend to find that I am never clever enough, funny enough, pretty enough, slim enough, fit enough or kind enough. However, this weekend I have retreated to the in laws for the Easter break where we are in the company of my husband's twin and her husband and I find myself searching my pockets for my yard stick once again and plotting our differences against one another. Now these differences are not in relation to our personal qualities (because obviously we are both equally as kind, beautiful and clever) but our experiences of similar events over the weekend.

Parallel Lives

1. The journey

My sister in law messaged the family WhatsApp group to inform the family of their arrival time, including elucidatory details of their planned journey. These tantalising nuggets included "the quiet coach", "M&S picnic" and "watching MasterChef en route". 

Meanwhile, I was wrangling with a 2 year old who refused to sleep despite the late hour and degree of exhaustion (loosely translated from his anguished screams of "I NO LIKE!!"). Attempts to ease him into the realm of unconsciousness whilst my husband attempted to concentrate on the road in the driving rain included, but were not limited to: 

• soothing tones and reassuring phrases issued in his general direction with reassuring pats of his legs. Response: "SHHHH! I NO LIKE!"

• putting on an over- exaggerated display of pretending to fall asleep myself. Response:  "MUMMYMUMMYMUMMYMUMMY MUM-MY!!"

• listening to the same banal nursery rhyme on repeat for an hour, slowly but surely feeling the will to live ebb from my body whilst also wondering if the vocalist every thought to question their life choices. Response: "AGAIN! AGAIN!"

Fighting a losing battle

2. The wake up

A fact universally acknowledged by the extended family is that this pair love a lie in; forever reluctant to stir from their recumbent position and face the world beyond their snug and warm duvet. Well, this weekend was no different. It was 9 o'clock before they emerged from the haven of their bedroom, loosely disheveled and in a dreamy haze; wandering down the stairs to greet the day and the youthful inhabitants of the house with the enthusiasm and vigour that only 8 hours of uninterrupted slumber can bestow.

We acknowledged their presence with subtle nods over the brim of our tepid cups of coffee; issuing a jaded greeting in their general direction like war veterans who were unable and unwilling to convey the terrors they had already lived through. We were broken. 

Bouncing into the day

The children had not transitioned from car to bedroom as seamlessly as we would have hoped and had needed frequent parental intervention for such emergencies as "the night is too dark", "my blanket is tangled" and "mummy, mummy, milk, mummy". They had, however, apparently been well rested enough to accompany the dawn chorus (the joys of countryside living) with their own dulcet tones and start the day with relentless enthusiasm for all forms of physical play; particularly those which involved sitting astride their mother and bouncing simultaneously with gay abandon.

Much like this...

3. The relationship

This twosome have been married for just over two years, a date I have etched on my calendar as my rascal child had penned in his arrival for two days later meaning my husband never got to see his twin be walked down the aisle, raise a toast to her future happiness or dance with her on her wedding day. Instead he was lucky enough to spend the day on labour ward being glowered at repeatedly (especially when being offered tea and biscuits mid contraction), have his beloved mutter audible profanities about him for putting her in such a position and being able to wipe the sweat from his wife's upper lip (I suffer from a very sweaty face) as she tried to expel an unruly grapefruit through the eye of the needle.

Parallel Lives

Despite being two years into matrimony and about 11 years into their relationship this other couple retain a display of physical affection that would be more suited to a fledgling romance; one that has not yet weathered the gastric illness, utility bills and domestic chores which come to all long term relationships. Hands are proferred for holding, armpits are snuggled into when seated on a couch and hugs are spontaneously bestowed upon each other freely and without ulterior motive. They appear very much in love.

Snuggle-tastic

We, on the other hand are comrades in arms, passing the undetonated (and sometimes detonated) bombs between us with an unspoken understanding. All physical affection is showered upon our offspring; hands are too busy carrying or wiping to be held, nooks are prefilled with small children who need a reassuring cuddle and spontaneous hugs are saved for times of childhood injury or uncertainty. On the rare occasions that we may try to bestow a loving touch or unsolicited kiss upon our other, we are met with outcry from our progeny. They appear to find it both unsettling and unfair; did we not realise that all affection must be lavished in their direction? 

Now, you may have read this and felt a twinge of pity for me or a hankering for those magical days where you weren't responsible for keeping another human entertained/fed/law- abiding/alive but I urge you to take solace in this fact: the other couple are expecting a baby. 

Holiday: It Would Be So Nice...

Top of the list for logistical nightmares must be going on holiday with toddlers. I swear there are military manoeuvres that take less organisation and negotiation skills than mobilising a family of four off this island. The obstacles to overcome include (but are by no means limited to):

1. Heat
To the average singleton, a destination that is warm equates to less of pretty much everything: less clothing, less beauty paraphernalia, less hassle. To a family with young children heat means more. More clothing, more creams and more apparatus as a consequence of heat based activities (read "swimming"). We have parasols, muslins and a variety of hats in the vain hope that one shall be tolerated and save that fresh, translucent skin from almost certain scorching.

2. Lack of NHS
This is not something the average young traveller really thinks about but when you have small children the nearest healthcare provider is at the top of the list of things to research. Gone are the Google searches for "cool things to do in Ecuador" or "nightclubs in Bucharest" and here to stay are "English speaking healthcare providers in Tenerife"... Ho hum.

3. Baby paraphernalia
Travel cots, baby monitors, prams, car seats, bottles, sippy cups, favoured formula, seat adaptors for eating out, nappy cream, travel potties, blankets, calpol... Need I go on?

4. "Essential" toddler items
Also high on the list, but not to be confused with potentially useful and necessary baby items are the "essential" toddler items. Those which they cannot live without. The things that absolutely define their being... Until you leave the house. At this point the plethora of plastic pieces, assemblage of assorted animals and the formation of furry friends will immediately be forgotten about. Left cruelly discarded in the bag in which they traversed miles across land and oceans only to see daylight upon their return to the homestead.

5. In flight entertainment
I defy anyone to have come up with the exact array of accoutrements that will entertain a child of preschool age for the duration of a European flight, never mind a long haul journey. This particularly item of hand luggage will be weighed down with small toys, iPads, headphones, snap cards, magazines, comforters and above all, snacks for bribery purposes. It shall be adorned with a popular swine based character or Disney Princess and shall be a violent neon colour. Expect to carry it.

6. The "last minute contributor"
This mantle falls to my husband who considers himself to be very organised and to the most part I would agree. However, with 5 minutes to go before departure you will find him throwing everything bar the items glued to the building into the bag "just in case" as "you never know"...

Well, I tell you what, I do know. I know we'll be paying for excess baggage. 

Oh look! We'll be trapped on that for 5hours together! Huzzah!