Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Viva Espana!

Whoops! I appear to have forgotten I've got a blog. Sorry about that, lost and confused wanderers of the Interwebs. I'll try to do better in future. Oh bugger it, let's be honest, I'll probably not post again till 2013. In fact, I'll probably not even manage to post this. In which case, you won't be reading it... and... and... nope, sorry, lost myself there.

I went on holiday! On a plane and everything. And, this time, I actually took Mr Badger and Lumpy. What a dedicated wife and mother I am.

And you know what? It was good. I have to admit, I was filled with some trepidation at the thought of this trip.

[Aaaaaaaaaaand, I was right. I wrote this first bit about two weeks ago and have utterly failed to revisit it since. I am a big slice of crap pie. But hey! Here I am to write another few paragraphs before failing to finish yet again. Ho hum tiddly bum.]

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, trepidation. Or, putting it another (more accurate) way, I was being a right old grumpy cow, moaning about how holidays weren't really holidays with a baby... grump grump grizzle woe is me etc. Because it's so, so tough looking after a monster beasty like this:

am not monster beasty. how verys dare you. am clearli cute adorables little fluffpot.

And also... confession time. We took not one, but two (count 'em) Badger Grandmas with us. Two! To take one Badger grandparent on holiday may be regarded as sensible; to take both seems like greed. And possibly incompetence. But by 'eck, if we were going to get on a plane and invade a country with the Lumpybeast in tow, then we were going to need reinforcements. And we wanted their luggage allowance, too.

So, to cut a long story short (too late!), off we all marched to Luton airport at some ungodly hour to stand in various queues for many, many hours, before being shoehorned into a Sleazyjet seat with our knees folded comfortably behind our ears, and an x-large baby inadequately restrained on our laps.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Lumpy loved the plane, and watching the clouds through the window (and the sack of toys and endless snacks we bribed him with every 3.2 seconds). And here's something - trying to entertain/wrestle/hog-tie a wiggly 15-month old in a space the size of a shoebox certainly makes time fly.

So before we knew it, we were ensconced in our apartment, which we set about babyproofing to the best of our abilities by dragging furniture around to block lethal staircases and barricading gaps with sandbags. And then I began - shock, horror - to enjoy my holiday.

I lazed, dear readers, by the pool. I read books. Books! Those papery things with black marks all over them that I used to be quite familiar with. I dozed. Because, you see, when you have two grandmas at hand, you hardly ever have to actually see your own son. Apart from attempting to drown him every now and then, of course:

is freezings. flesh is dyings. feets hav actualli dropping of.

noooooooo! dont dunks me againz mummies. promis i be good boy.

if i canz just. get. to. the. sides...

ahhh barf. iz lovelies.

Lumpy was also particularly impressed with the Spanish-town-square-as-social-hub notion, as it gave him lots of opportunities for harassing wildlife and generally tarting about - which are, of course, two of his favourite things. It also meant he got to eat two dinners - one in the apartment at his normal dinner time, and then whatever he fancied stealing from our plates later on - and got to stay up late too. Lumpy result! As long as he was facing the square he was usually quite happy to sit and watch the mopeds and horses (yes) go by, while we shoved deep-fried aubergine into our gobs and poured San Miguel down or gullets. But then he would be set free, and would rampage around the place, flirting with old men and trying to get the big kids to let him join in their games. He was in heaven.

In fact the main problem was wrestling him into submission to get him to come home.

noooooooooo. they wont take me alives!

Here I demonstrate the upside-down crusher grip. Highly effective when combined with tickling and biting of the shins. Which is just how we got him on the plane to go back home.

And I'm going to stop right there so that I actually post this post and this blog doesn't just curl up and die. See you soon. Realli realli promis.