Part 2: Stopping for a quick pant...

So part 2, the weekend. The Friday afternoon, after picking everyone up for lunch, and dropping them back off at school, except Mitzi who gets some mummy time, whilst Esmie has her nap, I go to pick up the leaflets that are to be collated and delivered for the week. There, I must be the smallest little lady going, not that the other women are hulks, well, not that I’d say it to their faces anyway, (joking), but I am quite a slight build, I have heard expressions shouted vaguely from distances such as: seen more meat on a jockey’s whip, where’s Santa? (As in I am one of his little helpers, or an elf, for those who did not get that extreme wit). Anyway, about me, I go in, and try for a while desperately negotiating the trolley thing. It’s worse than the supermarket ones. You have to guide the forky things under the pallet, navigate your way passed everyone, through the warehouse and to the boot of your car, to stack. I triumphantly manage to get half way, stopping for a quick pant, bending double, then straighten back up for the final stretch…This is when the descent down to the car park suddenly steepens. It is in fact my worst nightmare that I now experience, as all of a sudden the trolley starts picking up speed, almost hurtling out of control, someone goes, “Everything ok?” As I am now nearly killing myself trying to control the beast that is trolley, I say oh, it’s all fine, they reply, well it’s going awfully fast there…and I put my knee up to stop it before it crashes into the car at what feels like 85 miles an hour, and dint my knee. Straight up. I suppress a scream of agonising pain, and reply to the gentleman who has just re-checked, with concerned face if it was still all alright, and with squeezed-shut-face-suppressing-agonising-pain-from-dinting-shin-incident face on, reply, that ‘It’s fine, it’s all fine, nothing to see here, thank you, move along now’, well not exactly that, but he still thought I was a right weirdo, so that’s good. I finally manage to get all the leaflets in the car, hoying them in with gay abandon, as I am so conscious of the time, don’t want to be late for the kids. I limp back dragging my personal enemy number one behind me, and replace it, wincing still in dinted shin pain.

The weekend is lovely, warm, sunny, mild, and we take the kids to the beach, park and merry-go-round. The beach was fine, park, nothing to report, except I think I broke a see-saw with my big adult pie ass, but no-one else saw, so I think I got away with it. The merry-go-round, however, was something else. As a child, I found masks, quite simply, terrifying, I was as equally freaked out by furry things, dolls, clowns…and to this day, still am. Especially dolls. Those like, collectable doll ones though, glass eyes, real hair, those types (that sent shivers down my spine, that description). Monty gets on, choosing the giant luminous pink sea horse (where do they come up with these creatures? Are they left over from some very keen hippi tete-a-tetes? French, hippi tete-a-tetes aswell…)) Lola climbs into a yellow bus with 2 seats (how impractical?) Mitzi takes her time wandering around all the merry-go-round creations, unable to decide…I get on to help her out, although I’m struggling too, they are all pretty freaky to be fair, as we are still making our mind up, the merry-go-round dude obviously loses patience, and launches the thing. “Bastard!” I shout, (please see very first blog http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-actually-got-bin-juice-in-my-eyes.html to completely understand my Pavlovian response to this poor man). I cannot help myself, and I shove Mitzi into something green and slightly shell-like with a few arms/legs splaying about, few bulbous details going on too, and feeling as though I have just downed a litre of vodka, try and negotiate my way off the spinning nightmare, full of weird freaky, traumatising-to-look at animals. I literally have to fling myself off this thing, stringing together vulgar words under my breath. I land, not gracefully, but at least I did not impale myself on any merry-go-round animals, which had been an overwhelming fear. Then Mitzi decides she doesn’t want a go anymore, starts crying and reaching her arms out for me to get her off, the merry-go-round stops spinning for no-one, and her little arms are reaching out, and I keep missing her as it goes round, I pick up pace round the outside, but I am not fast enough, and have to hurl myself back on the merry-go-round, like a long-jumper, extract the child, legs flailing round, wobbling at the knees, I then have to re-fling myself and Mitzi off the ride.

I am never ever going any where near a merry-go-round again. As long as I live, this is a promise to my mental well-being. I simply can’t cope anymore. Children’s entertainment is too much for me these days. And b*ggar me, I’ve got 4 of them to entertain!