Having embarked upon our last trip of the year Mr B and I were very much hoping for a couple of days of relaxation. We have deserted our Devon homeland in favour of his Brother’s Tuscan retreat to drink nice wine, soak up some sun and gorge ourselves on Italian deliciousness.
What could be more relaxing?
Oh yeah, that’s right. We’re travelling with the smalls.
Two super tired kids who have steadfastly refused to either sleep or eat since we upped sticks 36 hours ago do not a relaxing holiday make. We had hoped our stay in an airport hotel the night before may improve their mood a little, but…no. Instead my daughter now has an unhealthy obsession with Indiana Jones (“More Indy Mummy, more Indy. MORE INDY!!!” You can picture the scene and, whilst I can’t fault her taste in movies she is only two. Inappropriate? Much? Who would let a two year old watch that kind of movie? Oh…yeah.) And whilst Mr B’s insistence on growling “Kali Ma, Kali Ma” as he pretends to pluck our hearts from our chests does not appear to be unsettling the kids I remain not sleeping with one eye open at all times.
The kids are grumpy and fighting. A lot. And whining. More.
But, we’re on holiday. We’re all having fun right?
Then there’s the heat. “Let’s get a last bit of sun” we thought cheerfully. A bit? I swear to God the earth has shifted and Italy is now approximately a football pitch’s length away from the corona. WE. ARE. MELTING. And we smell very, very bad. Mr B and the smalls are content to run happily around in their pants yet I feel somewhat less comfortable doing the same. He’s my brother in law dude!
The kids have now refused all and any food for as long as I can remember (the last 12 hours). In desperation I sweated (literally buckets of the stuff) over a crazily hot stove making a tuna pasta bake which is my utter fail-safe, never gets refused, alway a winner, meal. Would they eat it? No. With half a tub of yoghurt in their bellies (which was practically force-fed to them Guantanamo style) and with the threat they will never be allowed out of their rooms ever, ever again, or allowed ice-cream until they’re thirty, they were despatched to bed.
Where they promptly fell asleep. And stopped looking like gut-wrenching, character-breaking lunatics, to actually just very sweet and obviously totally overtired little angels which I swear they only do to make me feel even worse.
With the smalls asleep we figured we would retire to the garden and crack open some wine. Which we did. And at this point, literally from nowhere, the biggest gale I have ever seen arose. Leaves are flying, window panes from neighbouring farms are creaking, doors are slamming and cats are howling. It’s spooky as hell.
“Will you f***ing stop it!”
Then it stops.
There may be leaves in our wine but at least it’s not raining.
Then, like a final biblical plague, the mosquitoes have arrived. In their millions. We sit, spasming every other second as we slap shoulders, ankles, feet, our arms and hands flailing like we have taken the worst drugs ever.
“Shall we just a call it a day?” he asks, simultaneously swatting both ear and knee, multiple red welts beginning to appear across his torso.
We’re throwing in the towel for today.
But tomorrow is, as they say, another day.
Disclosure: I may have been somewhat affected by a lack of sleep when this post was written and no children were actually hurt in it’s production. I did however beat a few hundred mozzies to death with a flip flop. Man that felt good.