I have a theory that my children may be duracell bunnies

I used to know a lady who had a theory that children always had so much energy because they were basically cute parasites, who when they were in some kind of energetic dip, would simply hoover up energy from whoever was nearest them, and repower almost instantly.  As their parents were almost always nearest  them, it explained why parents were almost constantly knackered while children, no matter how early they had gotten up, or how much running around they had done during a day, were alway brimming over with energy.  I always thought it was an argument based on the fact that she wasn’t keen on babysitting her grandchildren and this gave her some kind of pseudo-scientific rationale for it.  After today I am siding more with her on the whole cute parasite thing.

Today I have allowed Oscar to have an almost entirely Oscar-centric day.  We had a few hours off in the morning while he did his usual fruit eating/television watching ritual, and I frantically caught up on some of the huge backlog of books currently waiting for me to review them.  Then we were off.  We met Mole and his mother for another try at the play date that never was.  We went to Whacky Warehouse.  For hours. And hours. And hours of my life.

Mole’s mum was equal parts amazed, outraged and apologetic when I announced that this was the first time Oscar had ever been to a Whacky Warehouse and I had had to explain to him what it would be like. 

I do not like these places. I would rather perambulate up and down the aisles of B&Q for two hours than spend twenty minutes of my life in a Whacky Warehouse.  I have been to them, and play places like them, but they chill me to the soul for the most part.  Oscar has never missed them, and the girls’ father, who is the dispenser of all treats I abhor takes them to enough of these places for them not to ask me about going, which has worked beautifully up to now.

Today’s outing was the most enjoyable I’ve had to this kind of place to be fair.  Firstly it was almost deserted. There were only Mole and Oscar and a lady with two rather lovely, well behaved young girls there for the first hour, and by the time we left there were only ten children in there. It has a capacity for eighty kids.  Eighty kids in a space three times the size of my lounge with soft drinks, sweets and apparatus from which you can dangle upside down  is a hideous thought, and I have vowed that we will never go there when it is full.  Or even half full.

It was also rather quiet.  There was a little background music, but it was low, and the perennial television was on in the corner, but muted.  We could actually chat, and hear each other.  This was a distinct improvement to my last visit, which was to a place called Pirates which was like the devil’s arse with disco lighting and a pumping bass line.

Furthermore, for the princely sum of £3 for Oscar and nothing for me, he could play there all day, and there was free juice for the kids, coffee and tea for the adults and biscuits all round.  I was impressed, even though the coffee was instant.

We bought the children lunch, which was reasonably vile, but standard pub fare and adored by children up and down the land. 

And they played, and played, and played, and played.  What’s more they did it nicely, and together, the entire time.

A hit. A palpable hit.

We left at two in the afternoon, having been there for over three hours.  I was exhausted. All I had done was wade through the odd ball pool, and chat.  And I felt like I’d climbed the Himalayas.

When we got home Oscar was still in running mode, and in the twenty mintues it took me to catch up with a few phone calls, he had destroyed the front room.  Last night we had a call from Mole’s mum to say that he was ill and might not be able to make today’s hot playdate.  I had consoled Oscar with the idea that if Mole was on his deathbed, Oscar and I would go to the park.  As he was climbing the walls in the lounge by two thirty I decided that the park might be a good relaxation aid for us both.  So we went there until it was time to pick the girls up from school.  I got pusher’s elbow, which is not as dramatic as it sounds, and comes from too much sending your child on a mission to the stars in a swing, whilst whooping enthusiastically and behaving like one of the audience on Oprah.

Then we went to the library. Then we walked back and I got somehow suckered into a final fifteen minutes in the park before we went home.  I consoled myself that they would all be exhausted and grateful to be home.

It was a lie.

I was the only one exhausted and grateful to be home.

All the others are still going, and are currently watching Fantastic Mr. Fox in the care of their father, who while pretending to be alert and en garde, is actually falling asleep on the sofa, much like I would like to be.

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