The Camping Pods Of Despair
Camping is quite the delight with a one and a half year old.
We imagined the twinkling sunlight that scattered itself between the trees, creating an almost surreal fairyland in which Edgar would forage in the woods, only to return to show off the spoils of his adventures and then he’d be off again to explore some more.
We would just sit and drink tea and smile and wonder why we never thought of it before.
It would be bliss.
We get him in bed for 7pm as per our amazing unbreakable routine.
All you happy-go-lucky parents that throw caution to the wind and stretch them out until 7.05pm if the needs suit are completely bonkers.
Routine is everything.
It’s because he’s in a new environment
10 minutes later
I hate it
I know, me too
5 minutes later
Perhaps he just needs to know we’re here
I don’t mind if you want to go in and sit with him
It only makes it worse though doesn’t it?
4 minutes and 18 seconds later
God I love him don’t you?
Yes, what a trooper.
35 seconds later
We cringe in silence and stare at each other.
(whisper shouting) Oh fuck you God
So despite Edgar’s incredible ability to stay asleep through the whole thing, the majority of the night was spent praying for respite that never came, expecting terrified screams to ensue at any moment, sat outside in a one metre bit of shelter.
Without any doubt the best night of the holiday.
We get him in bed for 7.01pm.
What the hell it’s a holiday.
Edgar goes instantly to sleep.
After a satisfying round of rummy, with a glass (bottle) of red, we smugly go to bed at around 10.30pm.
Just before midnight we hear a noise.
Sounds like someone has poured half a tin of soup into Edgar’s cot.
There it is again.
At the same moment, in a perfect daze of confusion and horror, we realise he is being sick.
I jump up and pick him up.
He voms down my back.
An instant argument ensues where we are both shout whispering at each about what the fuck we are supposed to do.
I think shout whispering must make you look more angry than you are as you try and act out being cross because the volume of your voice isn’t sufficient.
Stop being aggressive
I’m not being aggressive! (I say aggressively)
Only in the second dictionary definition do I accept the word:
“2. Making an all out effort to win or succeed; competitive”
Looking back I shouldn’t have taken offence, as I’m sure that’s what she meant.
Edgar is still puking down my back by the way, in case you wondered.
Look, I have puke in my beard. What more do you want?
Wife laughs and then returns to hating me.
Shortly she will be cleaning sick off the mattress with her nails, so it balances out nicely.
I think a highlight was when the wife had run to the shower block to wash sick off various items and I had to pee in a pot whilst holding Edgar (puking down my back), with my head bent towards the window so that the smell didn’t cause me to vomit.
Edgar was drained (literally) and following this he would only be on me.
So I was up with him all night, cradling him against my chest so he could get some sleep, which I was happy (sort of) to do, because he was obviously the one having the worst time of all.
We’d really like to apologise for leaving it so long to post. We let stupid old life get in the way of blogging and that really isn’t fair on either of you. To make it up to you both, why don’t you subscribe to our lovely blogs? Go on, treat yourself.