We are in week two of the summer holidays and already we’ve run out of things to do, fallen out numerous times and I’ve already wasted most of my daily calories on alcohol.
On Wednesday I decided we needed to get out and do something. I did that parenty-thing and told the boy we would go on an adventure.
I packed up a (particularly shit) picnic and after standing on a Lego brick and losing my shit several times we left the house at 10am and waited for a bus.
I’d decided on a random bus trip for two reasons:
1) my Ankylosing Spondylitis was awful and I ached like a bitch so I figured we could sit in a bus for an hour, a rest for me, adventure for him.
2) hubs is a bus driver and we don’t pay. Winner winner Quorn fillet dinner.
After cramming ourselves into a packed bus we made it into town and decided on a little jaunt to Tunbridge Wells. Mainly because they have a Subway and a Cath Kidston shop.
The boy decided he wanted to sit at the top of the double decker bus and off we went, happily chowing down on snacks and playing I-spy.
All was well and good, we were having a lovely time. We arrived in Tunbridge Wells, he pressed the bell and we made our way to the top of the stairs.
And then he starting screaming. Hysterically screaming.
I asked what was wrong – he just screamed.
I took his hand and tried to guide him down the stairs.
“HELP ME, HELP ME, HELLLPPPPPP SHE’S GRABBING MY HAND AND PUSHING ME”.
At this point I lose my shit – there are several people trying to get past us and we are blocking the stairs.
He wouldn’t budge. Point blank refused to move. Shit.
And then a lady comes over and stands in front of me:
“Little boy, is this lady a STRANGER? Is she forcing you to GO WITH HER? Where is your mummy?”
Sweet Baby Jesus Holy Mother of him up above. This lady thinks I’m trying to kidnap my own son.
So I grab him, throw him over one shoulder and run down the stairs. In hindsight, probably not the best thing I could’ve done.
She shoots after me and stops me getting off. Tells the driver that I’m kidnapping a little boy and he must call the police.
I’m bright red. Literally wanting to melt into the floor.
“He’s my son, he’s just, erm, three and just, well, being a bit of a, erm, stubborn little shit”
She looks at me.
“Can you prove he’s yours?”
Errrr…. no….. not unless Jeremy Kyle hops on-board in the next ten seconds with a DNA test, flower…
Luckily at this point the bus driver steps in:
“I ain’t bein’ funny luv but he’s the spit of ‘er, clearly she’s ‘is muvva. And I ain’t bein’ funny but I’m running ‘alf ‘our late so have a nice day”.
The lady shook her head and trotted off.
And my little shit of a son threw his arms around my neck, gave me a massive kiss and told everyone I actually was his mummy and how much he loved me.
Through gritted teeth I dared him to EVER pull a stunt like that EVER again… yes, I’ve reached that point in parenthood where I emphasise certain words when I lose my shit through gritted teeth.
I never imagined such an almost spiritual level of mortification existed.
In hindsight – what a lovely lady for taking the time to intervene and care – there are some decent people in the world after all.
As for my son? He was actually scared he was going to fall down the stairs and we’ve promised never to sit on the top deck again.
It gets easier, right?