I had the very exceptional idea of visiting a lovely National Trust property close to us. The squidlets
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Right. Let’s go. How are you still in your pyjamas?!!! Get dressed!
Right. Let’s go! I don’t know where your shoes are. Find them.
Right. Let’s go! You need a drink. OK. Have some water.
Right! Let’s go! You need a wee? Pee in the car. Let’s go!!!!!!
Then, there is the ever present, real fight, over who sits in the front seat. What is that all about? Control? No. I’M in control. Better view? No. Well, not for the 12 year old hormone factory, anyway. She spends her whole time looking down at her phone, so has the same view, front OR back.
So what is it? Pecking order? Are front seat people more special than back seat people? That can be the only answer. Which is why I made them all sit in the back, wedged in like vacuum packed sausages.
Having made the decision to vacuum pack the kids, we set off, amid constant wailing and moaning about elbows in ears, squashed legs and crushed toes. Shut up. We’re having fun.
Next comes the music battle. What to listen to. I have genuinely had to make a playlist which suits all tastes for a pigtailed 4 year old, a food-faced 10 year old, who listens only to Minecraft parodies and Youtuber type dross, and a hormonal 12 year old. Go me!
I can only make a playlist to use in the car since we got the new one. We now have bluetooth audio! Woo. I know! Although, each time I use the voice command for the phone, I approach it with huge trepidation. It just doesn’t understand simple English. This is how it often goes…
Handsfree lady (we’ll call her….Gladys) - Who would you like to call?
Me - Finn
Gladys - Would you like to call….Amy?
Me - No. Call Finn
Gladys - Would you like to call…..Karen?
Me - No. Call Finn
Gladys - Calling…Dan
Me - No no no no no
Oh, the embarrassment and horror of randomly calling an old workmate.
Anyway, I digress. The road trip.
Next comes the constant chirruping of, How far is it? How long have we been in the car? Are we nearly there? Is it very far? Mummy, I can't feel my feet.....etc etc etc.
By this point and just as we're turning out of our road, I’m seriously questioning my decision to leave the house with the little parasites and am wondering if I can drop them off in a lay-by somewhere along the A27. I figure they're a bit like homing pigeons. I’m sure they’d find their way back eventually. And they’d have each other for company….might even be a bonding experience...meantime, I can have a bit of peace. No? Pants. OK. Only 15 more miles…...