Last night the Smalls and I camped at Point Leo – we dropped M off at home on the way through. We have a meetup with the WildThings (our nature-walkers) here this morning and, as the caravan was all set up, I thought we wouldn’t return home just yet.
Aside from one all-screaming all-dancing tantrum (what is wrong with me, as a parent, that I shout things like: “If you put on a jumper, you can have a strawberry…” and as the screaming and refusals escalate, “You can have FOUR STRAWBERRIES – just PUT A GODDAMN JUMPER ON.”?
Because we would all be having a reasonable time if Small DB was warm and comfortable, but as she chooses to remain chilly, she whimpers and whinges. Because, we would all be having a reasonable time if I wasn’t a menstruating psychopath with control issues. Again and again and again I write this crap up in an effort to hammer home to myself that clashing with her achieves nothing.
Having arrived at 6.30pm there was little time for long walks or the beach because dinner needed inventing and then the bed needed to be made up. I had had dreams of sitting up amidst two sweetly slumbering Smalls as I tapped away on my iPad…but they didn’t conk out until 9.30pm and by then I was shattered. An early night – though I did begin reading The Art of Fielding, a write up of which I read a while ago in Vanity Fair and it made an impression on me.
The night was filled with the drone and divebombs of a million fucking mosquitos. Maybe there is blood close to the skin near ones ears? Maybe it is because the head is sticking out of the blankets and is the obvious target? I couldn’t figure out if there was one maddeningly overactive one or squadrons. I lay perfectly still as it buzzed around my ear and then landed on my eyebrow/cheek/chin/forehead and then thwacked myself in the face with manic vigor in the darkness in the hope that I’d killed it. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. It. Would. Not. Die.
Whacking oneself in the face doesn’t lend itself to peaceful slumber and I read between 4am and 5.30am – we all awoke just before 8am to the sound of rain on the roof. I couldn’t help myself. I did not cuddle my girls or snuggle, I got up like a ninja and stalked every last one of the TWELVE motherfucking mosquitos that were staked out inside the caravan. And squashed them ALL.
Both Smalls have little red bites on their faces. I haven’t bothered to check mine. I can’t comprehend how I ever thought we could live in this caravan for a few months… really? I suppose if we were in someone’s backyard it would be easier, but caravans – three people – rainy weather? I think not. That said, we have had some serenity this morning – some reading, drawing, tea, flocks of ducks waddling by – and the sun (both realistically and metaphorically) is starting to show it’s face. The Smalls have decamped to the playground up on the hill – an option that the couple camping a bit further down with three small children won’t have for a few years yet.
It is time to splash my face, put away the crud, get dressed and start anew.