SWB on Holiday Meltdowns

Just warning you- there’s going to be swearing and plenty of it. At breakfast LSB said to me:

‘What about a feature called ‘Melter of the Month’ for your blog, you know, as content?’ He’s been full of ideas this trip, about my blog. He’s thinking of a ‘Sour Wee Book’ full of nuggets of wisdom from me and The Mothership.

‘Wisdom? Me?’ I said.

‘Well, you know, nonsense that you pass off as wisdom,’ he replied.

Cheeky f**ker.’ (Incidentally, I didn’t know that ‘CF’ was a thing on ‘Mumsnet’, but then I never really read ‘Mumsnet’ so I hadn’t even a clue what ‘AIBU’ meant until recently. I live in a sort of SWB bubble, which is perhaps why I’ve been writing this blog for nearly 4 years and it hasn’t gone very far. Just as well, I suppose: I’ve enough anxiety issues without adding fame to the list: I mightn’t be able to cope.)

I digress. ‘Melter of the Month?’ I said, ‘What about “Melter of the Morning”’? Sitting opposite us at the table was the Small Child, with an expression that would have withered your wisteria in 3 seconds flat. ‘What’s the matter now?’ I said in despair, dipping my homemade chocolate cookie into my cappucino.

‘I don’t like the FOOD,’ she replied.

Let me tell you about the food. There were eggs, fried to perfection; creamy yogurt with an infinite number (ok, five) things to sprinkle in it, and luscious slices of watermelon, cantaloupe and blood orange. Piled on trays were croissants and muffins and cake and breads of every kind including one which was soft and pie shaped and dusted with icing sugar. It made my heart do a little flip and everything in the world seem alright. I tried cajoling: ‘Up you come with me and let’s see what we can find! Oooh, let’s put some Nutella on that mini croissant!’

Do you know what the wee s**t finally said she wanted? ‘If only there were crisps, then I could make a crisp sandwich,’ she said. I kid you f**king not. It was 9am.  Her daddy actually smirked a little bit, because he was the f**ker who introduced her to a crisp sandwich, as though it were a good thing, and something which they ‘bonded over.’ I mean, there was a veritable smorgasbord of delights but she declared that the mini doughnut she deigned to sample got ‘sour towards the end’ and the cookies were ‘not to her taste’. I must confess that I taught her that phrase as I objected strongly to foodstuffs (particularly items which I had lovingly prepared) being declared ‘revolting’.

Her sister, on the other hand (and God how I loved her at the moment) was hoovering up banana chips and slathering her muffin in strawberry jam and humming happily to herself.

Later, we went to the pool. There was some playing and pretending to be mermaids (a game where I have to be Queen mermaid and they swim about  saying: ‘I’m Eve and my tail is purple with white bits and I’ll collect you prawns for lunch) and this contented them for approximately eight minutes and until they got bored and wanted to go ‘back to the room.’

‘No,’ I said, with feeling. LSB had the shits which he claimed was down to the teeny tiny bit of mayonnaise which was on his pork gyoza in a sushi bar last night, but I would suggest the ever present glasses of chilled beer in his hand since we arrived on the island 7 days ago would more likely be the culprit. Anyway, he was away for paracetamol, and I was landed with the two feckers who, every time I found something interesting to read on Twitter, would insist on annoying me.

They don’t like to take on fluids my children, unless it’s Coke or Sprite and I worry for their teeth since mine are like chalk and tend to disintegrate and therefore my dentist and I have such a close relationship that every time I sit on the chair I just say, ‘What’s wrong now’ and he tells me and I say ‘FUCK’ and he just nods, sadly, and tells me to book in for fillings ASAP. So I bought them a lolly each as it was already 28º and I feared dehydration would do little to improve their moods. Sitting down with a sigh I reflected: ‘FIVE MINUTES. PLEASE GOD FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE’. The Older One then opened her Super Twister and there was f**k all super about it, as it had melted into an odd and sticky mess where stick and lolly were indistinguishable.

Fortunately, LSB chose this moment to return from the pharmacy and I declared that HE could sort the BLASTED LOLLY OUT and that I was parking myself ‘far, far away’ from all family members. It was 11.35. How dreadful to be so fed up at 11.35, especially when the day had started so well with the Small Child acquiescing to put on a wee dress and white sandals and looked altogether edible, which was ironic as she deemed nothing from the extensive breakfast buffet was remotely edible at all.

It is now 12-55 and they have all retreated to the room where the children have resumed their game of ‘toys on a mission!’ which involves attaching their soft toys to flipflops and trainers with a playing card as a ‘map’ to fly about. Clearly, there is no need at all, to book for a hotel with sea views in Palma when you could stay in Belfast, manhandling a seal called Oscar and a badger called Trevor into a shoe (from henceforth known as ‘mobiles’) and flinging them about. Barney the Bear came a cropper apparently, and was ‘on oxygen’ back at the hospital (aka the dressing table) with half of a plastic ball they got from a machine over his face to help bring him round.

‘I’ve booked a massage,’ I tell LSB,’They’re all yours.’

‘I though as much,’ he replied, with a heavy sigh.

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