On holiday to Gran’s land of milk, honey and sweets
There’s a delicate balance to be struck between accurately chronicling the adventures of my children and not offending anyone.
I know I’m safe with their mother because, in between looking after the twins and working, she doesn’t have much time to read the paper, so I’m free to report the truth. There is a risk she’ll find the archive one day and leave me but we’ll worry about that if it happens.
The issue is with the older generation... specifically my parents, who I know have bought the paper.
With that in mind, I’d like to make clear how very grateful I am for their support, house and lovely garden, and it’s crucial nobody takes offence given we’ve just spent a wonderful week with them.
I like to think of our time together as if we were at a no cost all-inclusive, with an endless supply of food, alcohol and childcare facilities.
The only feedback I’ve got regarding accommodation is they could benefit from a swimming pool – and a tennis court would be nice. But other than that, it’s splendid.
If there are any issues, they lie with the childcare operation, specifically catering, discipline and generosity.
Let’s start with breakfast, which involves a visit by the sweetie fairy, resulting in the first meal of the day being Gummi Bears, followed by a sugary cereal, toast with chocolate spread and maybe a croissant. I fear this is turning their heads to how good life can be with unlimited sugar for breakfast. At home, they get Weetabix, and they’re grateful.
From here, we might go out for the day and if Grandma is present, there’ll be an ice cream and it’ll end in the gift shop, where they will be bought a toy.
When they’re with me for a day out, they receive an apple and a box of sultanas brought from home and the gift shop is ignored.
Once we’re back at the ‘all-inclusive villa’, Grandma prepares dinner, I drink beer, and the twins enjoy playing in the garden with a hosepipe.
I might take a break from relaxing and request they change clothes to something more appropriate for mud and water. “They’re happy enough, leave them to it,” Grandma will say, undermining the authority of the father figure and giving the twins a carte blanche behaviour card.
“As long as they’re happy,” I begrudgingly say, in a feeble bid to reassert dominance in front of the children.
All of which would be infuriating, if I didn’t remember my Gran’s house as the land of milk and honey, full of sweets, lemonade, and endless fun activities, seemingly with no boundaries.
We’ve got a case of history repeating itself, and for that I’m grateful, even if it does make me look like a killjoy.