Rebel Baby has turned the grand old age of one, and Mummy decides to take her to the soft play cafe to celebrate*. Mummy sort of loves the soft play cafe because she can largely ignore The Baby while drinking a latte someone else made from a mug someone else will wash up. She also sort of hates it because she can’t actually ignore The Baby, and it is always much more labour-intensive than she fantasises it will be. Rebel Baby loves the play cafe because she can completely ignore the soft play facilities and make it her sole aim to hoover up as many raisins and Pom-Bears that have been trodden into the carpet as possible, while Mummy runs around dragging her by the ankles out from underneath tables and coaxing her towards the manky ball pit. It is too hot and oddly sticky at the soft play cafe, and Mummy immediately remembers that she should have brought Paracetamol. She orders the obligatory latte from the lady under the threatening sign about only consuming food or drink purchased on the premises, and ventures towards the entrance.
Feral children are roaming unsupervised and without socks, beneath signs informing parents they must supervise their children and ensure they wear socks. Mummy begins to twitch everso slightly. She lowers The Baby into the ball pit. The Baby climbs out of the ball pit. She looks at Mummy with a glint in her eye, and scurries off into the area labelled “2-6 year olds.” Mummy looks longing at her latte, and at the sign informing her no food or drink may be consumed in the play area. With a heavy heart, she puts it to one side.
The Baby is out of Mummy’s sight for less than twenty seconds. Less than twenty seconds is how long it takes Mummy to turn, place her latte on a table, remove her shoes, and enter the 2-6 year old play area with the intention of retrieving The Baby. In less than twenty seconds, Rebel Baby has acquired a ham sandwich. A. Ham. Sandwich. A whole one! A great big adult-sized triangle of ham and butter and bread which RB clearly intends to devour before (or perhaps whilst) plummeting headfirst down the age-inappropriate slide. She is grinning at Mummy and ramming the crusts into her happy little gums. Paracetamol isn’t going to cut it, thinks Mummy…
*(and also to reignite the blog for a bit, as Mummy has now adjusted to returning to work and anyway is on holiday!)