On Vomit
Sitting at the edge of the airport food hall, in easy view of about two hundred people, C pukes up her bottle of milk on me.
I say milk, I mean velling. Velling is a Swedish powdered baby food. Various grains go into it, along with some kind of whey powder or something, I don't know. Sort of like horlicks, I guess, I've never seen it in the UK. Swedes swear by it, C loves it.
It has, when old or semi-digested, the worst smell imaginable. Somewhere between cheese and spoiled meat, with a rotting bread undertone. Hints of the smell of a brand new polythene bag, cut through with the diarrhoea of a Victorian pauper with typhus. My Room 101 is lined with flasks of the stuff, gurgling their contents drippily into a central tank in which I am immersed, head down, twenty three hours a day. For the remaining hour, I must drink it.
It is this slime that I am coated liberally with, half an hour before our flight.
C is prised off my shoulder with a sucking noise. Across my chest is a perfect imprint of her body, outlined in goo, like a suncream gag from Police Academy gone horribly wrong. There is a ring of disgusted faces turning away from me as I rise and head for the toilets. V lends me her jumper. We've got changes of clothes for the girls, but not for us. This goes on the packing list for next time.
Comprehensive though my moobs are, they are lesser beasts compared to my wife's. Her v-neck is a little loose on me, is what I'm saying. It also doesn't hide the belt of caked white slime round the top of my jeans. Or the smell. Nothing hides the smell. Five hours on the flight certainly doesn't, with C writhing round on top of me happily, kicking the back of the chair in front.
F loves flying, she gets to sit and eat sweets and watch the iPad with our blessing for hours straight. Her over-excited screams drew grumpy looks from the lady in front a couple of times. I wanted to deck her with my tray of reheated beef stew, unstained by children and spew as she was, the bitch.
We got home to the darkest day of the Swedish winter. Two days before Christmas, with all the shopping still to do and no sunlight to do it in. Nice to know we'd made it past the solstice. Uphill from here! By April, we'll be right back to three minutes of weak, watery light round midday! Glorious!
F wept when we got home. "What is a holiday anyway," she wailed, "if you have to come home afterwards?" Well, an expensive waste of time, if you look at it that way, love.
Not that it was, in any way. Change is as good as a rest, they say.
On More Vomit
Christmas goes swimmingly, the Swedish family are round for a buffet Julbord and we all eat too much and get loads of presents. Cousin A sees right through my fake Tomte beard, but at least plays obligingly along with the illusion in front of the others. F gets a Doc McStuffins playset and a remote control car. C gets her very own playdoh and forgets not to eat it in her excitement. Then she gets toy envy and follows F from room to room, playing with whatever has been discarded last.
The day after Christmas, or, well, actual Christmas Day by the English reckoning , we go and hit the sales for a bit. C buys herself a Frozen snowglobe wand that plays Let It Go slightly off key and much too loud. F invests in a toy toaster, which turns out to have a broken timer once its out of its wrapper. I can't find the receipt to take it back.
Then we all start vomiting in unison. Except Clara, she's been done it already. And except V, who doesn't believe in vomiting except in extreme circumstances. Oh, we deck the halls, we do. All night, F and I take in turns to hit the buckets. The washer is full of stuffed toys and blankets, the sofa is full of exhausted parents.
"Pook pook," says C tenderly, patting me on the head. "Awww." Then she pulls herself up on to my lap and resumes bouncing up and down merrily. Careful, daughter, I owe you one from a few days back.
The night goes on forever, but by boxing day we're all more or less okay again. Exhausted, but capable of swallowing without hurling at least.
I want to go back to Tenerife.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
Holiday Fever 2/3
On Water Fights
We got the girls water pistols, obviously. F very quickly learned to yell "not in my face!", according to the rules laid out by Mummy, without having anything like the aim required to abide by that rule herself. I learned to give a particular kind of apologetic nod to swimmers-by, a kind of 'oops, sorry, but what can you do' affair, coupled with a weak grin and, all to often, a faceful of water myself. It accomplished nothing.
C couldn't quite get the hang of firing a water squirter. So she took to wading up to me, seizing my nose and ducking my head under, then laughing uproariously at the bubbles. "Hold nose!" she's still saying, a week later, and pushing me under an invisible surface. Good. Sure I won't regret that later in life. At least I know she gave herself the same treatment, lapping water up or sploshing her own face in with surprising frequency, given that she hates getting water in her eyes in the bath at home. Maybe she just likes the taste of chlorine.
On Buffets
The all-inclusive buffets were open three times a day, all days a week. And in the afternoon, you could get free bar snacks - cladgy cold chips, grainy ice cream, burger buns curling in the sun. Delicious! And thank Christ I wasn't having to rack my brains for some new twist on pasta for the next meal. That alone was worth the admission price.
Buffets are something of a weak spot for me. You could plausibly cover a table with fifteen different kinds of manure, call it a buffet and I'd feel honour bound to sample all of them whether or not they were any good. And this from a baseline of not saying no to food very often, I'd add.
After four days, I think the novelty was wearing off. Each meal had a loose theme. After American Night (make your own burger), Canarian Night (wrinkly potatoes, green mojo) and Taco Night (Tacos), International Night felt distinctly like several days of leftovers heated up, mixed together and relabelled as Fusion. Of course I ate it anyway, far more than I needed to, but I was grumbling through my mouthfuls of chocolate breakfast doughnuts and fruit salad with prawns.
C took fat handfuls of sausages for breakfast, chain eating them. F decided that being allowed to take whatever she wanted as long as she finished it was about the best rule for eating ever. Pasta with chips three times a day? Yes, okay then. Protein with that? Hell, no. Protein is for losers.
Obviously, it couldn't all last, all this lazy, sprawling bliss. That's holidays for you. At least the volcano didn't erupt until we were going home.
We got the girls water pistols, obviously. F very quickly learned to yell "not in my face!", according to the rules laid out by Mummy, without having anything like the aim required to abide by that rule herself. I learned to give a particular kind of apologetic nod to swimmers-by, a kind of 'oops, sorry, but what can you do' affair, coupled with a weak grin and, all to often, a faceful of water myself. It accomplished nothing.
C couldn't quite get the hang of firing a water squirter. So she took to wading up to me, seizing my nose and ducking my head under, then laughing uproariously at the bubbles. "Hold nose!" she's still saying, a week later, and pushing me under an invisible surface. Good. Sure I won't regret that later in life. At least I know she gave herself the same treatment, lapping water up or sploshing her own face in with surprising frequency, given that she hates getting water in her eyes in the bath at home. Maybe she just likes the taste of chlorine.
On Buffets
The all-inclusive buffets were open three times a day, all days a week. And in the afternoon, you could get free bar snacks - cladgy cold chips, grainy ice cream, burger buns curling in the sun. Delicious! And thank Christ I wasn't having to rack my brains for some new twist on pasta for the next meal. That alone was worth the admission price.
Buffets are something of a weak spot for me. You could plausibly cover a table with fifteen different kinds of manure, call it a buffet and I'd feel honour bound to sample all of them whether or not they were any good. And this from a baseline of not saying no to food very often, I'd add.
After four days, I think the novelty was wearing off. Each meal had a loose theme. After American Night (make your own burger), Canarian Night (wrinkly potatoes, green mojo) and Taco Night (Tacos), International Night felt distinctly like several days of leftovers heated up, mixed together and relabelled as Fusion. Of course I ate it anyway, far more than I needed to, but I was grumbling through my mouthfuls of chocolate breakfast doughnuts and fruit salad with prawns.
C took fat handfuls of sausages for breakfast, chain eating them. F decided that being allowed to take whatever she wanted as long as she finished it was about the best rule for eating ever. Pasta with chips three times a day? Yes, okay then. Protein with that? Hell, no. Protein is for losers.
-
Obviously, it couldn't all last, all this lazy, sprawling bliss. That's holidays for you. At least the volcano didn't erupt until we were going home.
Monday, December 26, 2016
Holiday Fever 1/3
Sorry for long hiatus. Much has happened, most of it mundane and uninteresting to write about. Additional posts saying 'my children grew up a bit more, did some funny stuff, I'm tired because Jeez! Parenting!' didn't really feel worth writing. Hurray, therefore, for the following life events, ever-reliable for giving me something inspirational.
On Seaside Towns
We took a little pre-Christmas break this year, nipping out to Tenerife for a week. F was very excited about this until we actually woke her on the day of the flight, at four in the morning. Then she howled and went back to bed.
Thomas Cook Sunwing hotels - nothing I'd ever been to before. And nothing, in my stuffy middle-class mindset, that I'd really considered as being relaxing. Even Tenerife had never appealed, I'd always had it pegged as a clubbing hotspot and nothing else. But a week of sitting by the pool, watching F and C get confident around water in blazing sunshine, and I'm convinced.
Bleak island, Tenerife. Craggy and dusty and deserty, scattered with little towns that look like miserable places to live. The ground doesn't look fit for human life, it's all gullies and sagebrush. No water other than the sea, which actually adds to the salt flat harshness of the place. Once you get into the towns, it's no better really, Hotel industry buildings, with everything desperate to tell you it's your home from home. Real English Food, Best Steak for Best Prices, Spectacular Sea Views, boasts each and every identikit bar. And the leathery touts hand you tickets and banter as you pass each one, until your pockets are full of business cards and your brain full of empty promises.
I still liked it! I just like moaning more. We didn't have to eat at any of the tourist traps, we'd gone all-inclusive with the hotel. Pacing the black beaches under the sun and examining knock-off bag shops at a snail's pace was surprisingly relaxing.
On Water
Neither of the girls like the sea yet. Too loud and scary for F. And C got some surf up the back of her legs unexpectedly, after which she would leg it for the dry part of the beach as fast as she could given a moment's notice.
The pools back at the hotel, though, that was different. Bath-warm water at either knee or thigh depth, depending on which of the kids' pools you chose. V and I lay next to the girls as they paddled and splashed, taking it in turns to panic when one or the other fell over or dunked her head in. By the end of the week, we were more or less lying still as they waded about, squirting each other and cackling.
Actually, a week-long bath was pretty much what I needed. Obviously, everything was mixed in with the standard tantrums and howls too. So it was tiring. But not tiring like home, where the filthy weather and darkness traps you indoors too often, and there's nothing new to see or do that doesn't cost money.
Dolphin watching was probably the most extreme distillation of the week. We sat in the bowels of a glass-bottomed catamaran watching pale flocks of strange creatures drift by, trying to convince F not to sulk by buying her squeaking, light-up keychains. At the time, it was actually exhausting and annoying, even slightly boring. But now we're home again, it's a memory of something exotic and unexpected to be treasured against the winter chills.
- Travel
- Christmas
- Bodily Fluids
-
On Seaside Towns
We took a little pre-Christmas break this year, nipping out to Tenerife for a week. F was very excited about this until we actually woke her on the day of the flight, at four in the morning. Then she howled and went back to bed.
Thomas Cook Sunwing hotels - nothing I'd ever been to before. And nothing, in my stuffy middle-class mindset, that I'd really considered as being relaxing. Even Tenerife had never appealed, I'd always had it pegged as a clubbing hotspot and nothing else. But a week of sitting by the pool, watching F and C get confident around water in blazing sunshine, and I'm convinced.
Bleak island, Tenerife. Craggy and dusty and deserty, scattered with little towns that look like miserable places to live. The ground doesn't look fit for human life, it's all gullies and sagebrush. No water other than the sea, which actually adds to the salt flat harshness of the place. Once you get into the towns, it's no better really, Hotel industry buildings, with everything desperate to tell you it's your home from home. Real English Food, Best Steak for Best Prices, Spectacular Sea Views, boasts each and every identikit bar. And the leathery touts hand you tickets and banter as you pass each one, until your pockets are full of business cards and your brain full of empty promises.
I still liked it! I just like moaning more. We didn't have to eat at any of the tourist traps, we'd gone all-inclusive with the hotel. Pacing the black beaches under the sun and examining knock-off bag shops at a snail's pace was surprisingly relaxing.
On Water
Neither of the girls like the sea yet. Too loud and scary for F. And C got some surf up the back of her legs unexpectedly, after which she would leg it for the dry part of the beach as fast as she could given a moment's notice.
The pools back at the hotel, though, that was different. Bath-warm water at either knee or thigh depth, depending on which of the kids' pools you chose. V and I lay next to the girls as they paddled and splashed, taking it in turns to panic when one or the other fell over or dunked her head in. By the end of the week, we were more or less lying still as they waded about, squirting each other and cackling.
Actually, a week-long bath was pretty much what I needed. Obviously, everything was mixed in with the standard tantrums and howls too. So it was tiring. But not tiring like home, where the filthy weather and darkness traps you indoors too often, and there's nothing new to see or do that doesn't cost money.
Dolphin watching was probably the most extreme distillation of the week. We sat in the bowels of a glass-bottomed catamaran watching pale flocks of strange creatures drift by, trying to convince F not to sulk by buying her squeaking, light-up keychains. At the time, it was actually exhausting and annoying, even slightly boring. But now we're home again, it's a memory of something exotic and unexpected to be treasured against the winter chills.
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