A Trip to the Beach – Part Two

“Hey guys; we made it!”

Oh Dear…Mummy 2 looks strained.

“The toilets at ‘Ma-hunk-cliff’ Coop should be fucking condemned.  If I’d had a petrie dish, Bunsen burner and dippy dippy thing I could have recreated Small Pox in there.  3 kids, 2 soft motions and a record breaking nappy weighing about 2 stone and I need a bloody drink…”

With that thought in mind we wrestle several chavvy Sports Direct bags, 5 kids and The Mother down onto the beach.  Upon hitting the sand the kids scatter.  In opposing directions.  Without wishing to put a dampener on their child-like enthusiasm and pent-up energy particularly after a long journey I scream ‘COME BACK’ like a mentalist before dragging each one back to our patch of sandy heaven.  During this time Mummy 2 has pinged open the pop-up tent and has tossed everyone’s coats and bags into it, Mother is perched on her canvas chair and a mug of Prosecco is presented to me!  “Marvellous…”

The weather is now glorious; my favourite kind, sunny and bright with a light wind.  And thankfully no need for sunscreen, peaked hats with a neck-guard and added UVA protection, hourly hydration regime of 100ml per child and later on a sleepless night whilst I monitor their resting, night-time temp alternating between the fan on and off as I keep a close-eye out for Sun Stroke.  No today is just right! 

My Mummy Barometer is now sensing a little storm on the horizon as the older three have come over all competitive about their personal ‘area’ of sand in which I’ve suggested they build a Medieval village within fortified walls to include a turreted fortress, moat with drawbridge access…or similar.  Not wishing in-fighting to spoil both the day and my first chipped mug of Prosecco I take the largest spade and with a dynamism I didn’t think I possessed dig their bloody moat’s for them. 

“There.  If you had deeds for your patch of land that would be your boundary fence….and no I’m not replacing any friggin panels, painting it or stopping the kids lifting them up to collect a ball.  Now sort ya shit out I’ve just driven 80 miles to make ‘this’ happen…”

Back on the rug; with the questionable stain I was supposed to wash last year, I chow down on lime-flavoured ‘Dorrito’s’ smothered in humus with olives and feta and am suddenly utterly sure I’ve never been this content…

“He’s squashed my….”

“I didn’t…she…”

“I saw it; he walked too close to…and it fell…and he…then she….so they….”

In this case the main issues are Mummy 2’s, we tend to alternate.  I do what any good friend would and continue to enjoy my moment whilst she stomps off to separate her warring offspring and my 8 year old helpfully narrates the entire debacle at high volume. 

“What flavour are these crisps?”

“Lime, Mum.”

“Lime?  As in the fruit?”

“Yes.”

“Fruit-flavoured crisps?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody lovely; they’d be crack-a-lackin with a G & T!”

There she blows…

With Mummy 2 back and peace resumed in the medieval village our contented chatter continues with the opening of the beige snacks.  Like flies around a discarded doughnut the kids are back and are defiling the humus by dipping their savoury eggs then licking and re-dipping.  “Ew gross…” says the 3 year old who clearly has more intelligence than I give her credit for; but apparently she’s referring to the fruit crisps, a masticated mouthful of which has now been deposited back in the bag.  “Ew gross…” says The Mother. Ffs.

Still the sun is shining and with a crowd of gathering Seagulls we plough on with the picnic luncheon whilst the kids also attempt to greviously harm the aggressive birds with well-aimed sausage rolls; which as we all know is like pissing into the wind.

Post lunch and it’s time to take the children down to the water.  That’s right it’s ‘paddle hour’ and this time it’s my turn.  After all the rules of coming to the beach are; a castle of sand must be made, a dune must be rolled down, toe dipped in salty sea and the foot-well of the car must be partially filled with sand until the pre-Christmas hoover out. 

“Come on kids!”

Walking into the breeze with the sun on my face and the chubby hands of 2 toddlers once more I’m transported to my happy place.  A place where I am simply an offshoot of Mother Earth; embracing nature whilst I nurture all of God’s children and…

“Fuck!”

“Mama?”

“What is it?”

Oh the curiosity of small children…at this point I’m very careful not to scare the little ones or to counter their wonder.  It would be wrong to inspire fear or blight the very moment a future Marine Biologist might be spawned…I mean one day I might say… “I can recall the day as if it were yesterday…when young…whoever…was introduced to her first jellyfish…and the rest as they…is history”. 

“Don’t fucking touch it; it’ll kill you, get away, get away…run girls….run……”

And with that I run towards the sea yanking two distressed toddlers their bare feet dragging in the sand.

Moments later and with the sun sparkling on the waves that lap at the sea shore all 5 of the little darlings are frolicking in the sea.  Their tinkling laughter filling my heart with joy.  Glancing round I then clock one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my life to-date.  And will probably ever see again.  With the pop-up tent having been whipped up by the wind, Mummy 2 is now running (I say running…) across the sand with her hair trailing behind her and a frenzied look on her face.  At this point I lose my composure a little and instantly regret my leisure trousers and ‘comfortable’ pants.  ‘Thank God that’s not me!’ I think to myself whilst wiping the tears of my friend’s distress from my eyes.  That is until this hunky bloke comes from stage left and literally rugby tackles the pop-up tent to the ground, seemingly giving it a couple of good hip thrusts to make sure it’s down. Oh now look at Mummy 2; see how she fawns over him, look at her twiddling with her hair, throwing her head back to laugh…I mean what is so bloody funny? Life is cruel; that could have been me….

Minutes later and a very red-faced Mummy 2 with a roll of canvas under one arm has arrived to watch the darlings frolick.

“Say nothing.”

“What has been seen cannot be unseen.  One question: Was he hot up close?”

“Forties, balding and wearing Crocs.”

“Nice thrusting action though…”

“Crocs love….he was wearing Crocs.”

So with the another beach law ticked off the list we round up the darlings and head in the direction of the dunes where some rolling must take place. Which it does. Though it is not entirely successful and now 2.5 of our combined offspring are crying with abrasions to their cornea. So with The Mother waving for us to return we usher the kids back to camp and pack up. Knowing my 2nd part of the day is looming I whistle a happy tune whilst attempting to un-pop the tent. Yeah this is not as easy as it sounds, I even find myself glancing round for the croc-wearing tent wrestler of earlier. But he’s playing with his children whilst his wife soaks up rays from her deck chair. I find myself musing that she doesn’t deserve him and imagining him cooking…naked…whipping up a roux with an enormous….

“Struggling love?”

And my daydream is broken so wiping the dribble from my chin I accept a hand from Mummy 2 (not like that! I’m not quite at that stage!) and we get the job done. So with everything back in the car plus half a tonne of sand we make our way to the Fish and Chip shop!

Entering the shop we face a wall of heat; what’s left of my foundation is now sliding off my chin. I’m seriously wondering if the Menopause is waiting for me at a table like the Grim Reaper with his cock out. With the draw of fresh haddock, cooked to order hanging in the air we usher the gang to a table and operation ‘where the fuck are you sitting’ commences. Ten minutes later all 8 of us are not only red but also sweating but at least we’re seated and happy; I’m shitting you, 2 kids are crying!

With The Mother organising the troops the orders are in and we’re soon heads down in grease and carbs; lush! At this point I’m called upon to open not 1 but 13 sachets of mayonnaise which the kids rejoice in squirting over their food and each other. Laughing like loons at the fart-like sound of each squeeze we’re in danger of being forcibly removed for behaving like chimps on speed. And frankly given that I’ve handed over 20 quid for what is essentially their tea that ain’t happening.  So with various ‘personally tailored’ punishments hanging in the air like a pungent trump the kids finally stop twatting around and eat up.

Never in my life have I been more glad to leave an establishment and suck fresh air into my lungs. Battling out the door as a party of 8 with a pushchair and various bags was akin to the last mile of a bloody marathon.  Just the pre-journey piss stop in the local public convenience to navigate before strapping the brood back in the and heading home. Hooray!

Jesus Christ the smell of urine is practically visible in the air. And there’s a queue. Where else would you stand in line to breathe in particles of piss and risk contamination by fanny? It takes nearly 20 minutes to empty 5 bladders and go through the soul sapping ritual of washing hands. At this point I’m desperate to get back in the car; I’m ready for home, yes even the twisty turny journey of doom…

With ‘Goodbyes’ all round, kisses, ‘love you’s’, ‘and you’, ‘yes and you’, ‘I said YOU…’ we finally buckle up and head home.

Another cracking day at the beach…until the next time guys!!

 

 

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