Barefoot in the Park

Don’t you just love the British summertime? Scorching hot weather, blue skies, ice creams and BBQ’s in the park, whilst wobbly pink bodies roast happily in the blazing sun.

But living in the Welsh capital, one generally gives up hope of ever seeing an inkling of sunshine, let alone experiencing the delights of the sizzling heat. It is not simply a myth that once you make that mile-long trip over the Seven Bridge leaving England behind and enter the land of sheep and love spoons, the heavens open to continuous downpours of rain.

Over the past two years, I have customised myself to this freak of Mother Nature and purchased for myself and my Darling Duo outdoor wet weather gear. We resemble an oversized canary, a cute green dinosaur and a bumble bee.

The problem is that rain and children are like a Chateaubriand and ketchup, they just don’t go together no matter how much in principle you like the idea. Sure it’s fun to have another valid reason to shop, purchasing cute, funky rainwear from Scandinavia and hearing my mother say, ‘Isn’t it marvellous what they can make today. When you were a baby, it was black bin liner.’ But really, once dress-up has finished and you take those first few steps from the front door to the outside world, the problems really begin.

Last Saturday, I couldn’t take it anymore. The sky was grey and it had rained continuously for 24 hours (nothing new of course). By two o’clock, we had exhausted every single ‘fun indoor activity for kids’ (and Mumsnet– just to say they’re really not that fun). We’d made twelve fairy cakes, painted a warehouse full of pictures, watched Toy Story 1 & 2, had a teddy bears’ tea party, two baths and tortured the cat. I decided that the only sane thing to do to preserve the mental well-being of us all was to brave the torrential downpour and venture out into the wilderness of the local park.

Thirty minutes later, all dressed up in our plastic wellies, macs and trousers and a butterfly and princess umbrella in tow, we hit the pavements.

Within seconds the singing and laughing had stopped and the repetitive whinging had started.

‘I don’t like it!’ screamed child number 1. ‘Mummy, I am cold.’ chips in off-spring number 2.

‘Don’t be so silly.’ I say, with a strained smile across my face trying to ignore the pain of being hit in the face by pellets of ice-cold rain. ‘You’re big people now. Big people don’t moan.’

'It will be great fun… we can jump in the puddles.’

I don’t necessarily think that reverse psychology, or bribery works, on three year olds in these situations, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. And quite frankly, I had a whole six hours before bedtime and free entertainment was non-negotiable.

As we dodged the minefield of obstacles, the flooded streets and the wet dogs galloping towards us with mischief in their eyes, I was just about to relax into a false sense of security when –oh, dear God no- as if in slow motion, my Darling Duo made a bee-line for the largest muddiest puddle within a five mile radius and threw themselves bottom first onto the floor.

I quickly turned away, not only to avoid being spray tanned by the muddy water, but also for just one moment, to avoid dealing with the reality that my two off-spring were sitting in a two foot deep pothole, sodden and caked in mud. To make matters worse we were a good half an hour from home.

As they laughed and splashed their feet, concerned passers-by sniggered as they mumbled ‘Oh bless.’ Not helpful people!

I looked down at my Dinosaur and Bumble Bee and couldn’t bring myself to shout at them, after all, they were only three. They didn’t realise the potential side effects (pneumonia and hospitalisation, which in turn would mean a week off work and cabin fever.) Oh dear Lord, when did I become a grown up? Three years ago after a few vodka tonics I would have joined in.

Suddenly, I felt a huge blow to my head. I raised my hand to rub the sore spot and felt the wet, grainy mud caked in my hair. It was a first - I had been hit in the head by Bob the Builder. I looked down and watched as my two kicked the remaining wellies off into the air.

In my best, I’m not in the mood to negotiate tones, I loudly said ‘That’s it. I’ve had it. Get up!’

I bent down to scoop up my brown children, delicately balancing the umbrella between my ear and shoulder and I suddenly felt water dripping down my back. I shot up, turned around and within seconds, my demon child had picked up his offending wellie, filled it with muddy water, and poured it down the inside of my water proof trousers.

Why? What did I ever do to deserve this? And, what in God’s name ever possessed me to think that on possibly one of the wettest days in Spring it would be fun to venture out to the park with two three year olds?

Armed with two pairs of muddy wellies, two umbrellas and six stone of children, I realised that -as with most things involving my Darling Duo - I had two choices: a) I could sit down on the side of the road and plead for help or, b) carry six stone of my own flesh and blood all the way home.

I heaved each child onto a hip and braved the walk home, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, gauging progress by the distance from one lamppost to the next, until, I could see it. There in the distance, home!

Twenty minutes later, I flew in through the front door and deposited him and her onto the sofa having literally lost sensation in both my arms, face and feet. It was 2;45pm and I was ready for bed!

Never ever again…! If there was one thing I'd learnt that day it’s that - if in doubt - throw yourself upon the mercy of the grandparents and plead for help. After all, grandparents really are a child's best friend.