"A different type of fun"
“Will I ever have fun again?”
I asked my mum this question on Christmas Day 2019, two weeks after having my daughter. At the time it felt like the answer was probably no.
FYI I do not recommend Christmas as a time to give birth. Because it is such a *special* time of year, you can remember exactly what you should be doing, and how you’d normally have been having fun in years past. This brings the ‘before’ and ‘after’ of your new life sharply into focus: last Christmas I was sitting down at the table enjoying roast potatoes with everyone else, this year I’m rocking a screaming baby and possibly weeping a bit myself, watching them eat Christmas dinner from across the living room. Last year I was wearing a sparkly Christmas dress, now I’m accidentally flashing my entire family from a manky dressing gown. You get the idea.
Anyway, my mum’s answer to the question was not entirely satisfactory. “Yes… it’s just a different type of fun".
I get what she means now though. The “different type of fun" theory was perfectly illustrated by the two mini-breaks I enjoyed this month. First, there was a romantic trip to Paris with my husband. Second, a family trip to The Mitre hotel, opposite Hampton Court. Not only do these trips explain why I currently have £3.93 in my current account, but they also give me scope to give you a very direct comparison between fun before and after. *clears throat*
Travelling on a romantic weekend
All our stuff fits into one small suitcase, which my husband wheels along so I have both hands free - a rarity! We hop onto the Eurostar, and are overjoyed to discover we’ve been seated in premium. I read an actual book while a nice man serves me croissants and coffee.
Travelling with a toddler
We have 15 bags full of all my child’s possessions - my husband has inexplicably packed everything in carrier bags rather than a suitcase. I normally do the packing, but left him in charge this time, so I guess this is payback. Everyone gets extremely frazzled as it takes about half an hour to get out of the flat and into the car. As we prepare to pull off, S (my daughter) asks to watch “Fwozen” on the tablet and I fire it up, only to discover the b**tard thing has randomly deleted the film from downloads. S becomes increasingly furious about the lack of Frozen, I am increasingly frantic trying to download off 5G. We haven’t even started driving yet, so I go inside to use the wifi while she shouts at my husband in the car. I wince as I watch the percentage crawl from 11 to 12%. Eventually, A joyous Whatsapp from my husband: “She says she’ll watch Thomas instead”. Oh merciful god. To be fair, once she has the screentime in place, S is good for the rest of the journey.
Lunchtime on a romantic weekend
After dropping our bags at the hotel, we swing by a very cool and contemporary restaurant I’ve booked, and sit at the counter cooing over the gorgeous Lebanese bread and interesting asparagus dishes. My husband and I have a lovely conversation involving coherent thoughts and crucially, no one needs to be taken to the toilet. “Shall we stay for another drink?” we wonder – so much time to play with!
Lunchtime with a toddler
Rock into the first place that looks like it will serve ‘A sausage with ketchup’ which is the only thing S will ever accept in a café or restaurant. I’m not sure she realises that other options are available. Remind my husband that we need to order almost instantly because from experience we’ve got about a half hour window to play with. I’m secretly thrilled that the kids on the table next to us are being right little turds, while S is – for once – not using forks as drumsticks on the table. Even more victorious when I manage to shovel about six peas into her mouth, disguised in a hillock of ketchup. Between the three of us there are five trips to the loo. “Shall we get out of here?” my husband asks, as S’s eyes start to turn towards the enormous cake display at the counter.
Culture on a romantic weekend
We go to the Musée Maillol to see a hyper-realism exhibition I have read about in The Times. What I didn’t quite realise is that it’s all hyper-realistic sculptures, mainly of naked women. Inside, chic Parisians nonchalantly study the hyper-realistic nipples, while we shuffle around feeling very British and like we shouldn’t really stare. Once we get to a hyper-realistic sculpture of Andy Warhol and an old woman in a nightie, we can finally relax and say how good it is.
Culture with a toddler
We enter Hampton Court, missing the first two to three rooms of Henry VIII’s quarters because S sprints from one end to the other, shouting exuberantly all the way. Probs nothing interesting in there anyway. Rather than look at anything, S instead decides to make the most of the space by projecting her inner Henry VIII, which to be honest is never far from the surface. At one point when my husband is charging after her, I simply stand still, then double back to treat myself to a five-minute sit down watching a video about the history of the palace. “Oh dear, I just couldn’t find you” I lie afterwards. We try to take a picture of S sitting in the banqueting hall throne (need visual evidence of what brilliant parents we are), but she screams her head off and it echoes a lot, so instead we let her climb on the Privy Council table for a while before giving up on history and heading outside to the ‘Magic Garden’. This is actually quite good – LOTS of slides – even if it is about minus 10. I buy a coffee and try to have another sneaky sit down but S keeps shouting “Mummy’s turn” every time she realises what I’m up to. It is quite fun going on the slides though.
2.30am on a romantic weekend
I’m having a lovely sleep, as I have been for several hours, and will be for many hours more.
2.30am with a toddler
“Muuuuummy! I wet I-self….MUMMY I WET I-SELF” It gets louder and louder, slowly breaking through my sleep until the full horror of the situation takes hold. My husband and I spend 30 seconds telling each other “It’s your turn” before one of us finally crawls to the bunk beds to retrieve an angry, damp toddler. I change her pyjamas for whatever other clothes I can find in the dark, and put her firmly in the middle of our king-size bed, because that still leaves plenty of room for us all to have comfortable sleep. Within seconds, fluffy toddler hair is tickling my nostrils. Every time I turn over she somehow manages to inch further into the remaining crevices, until I am sleeping arrow-like on my side. It’s uncomfortable but I don’t entirely hate having this little koala cuddled next to me, although I wish she’d stop shouting about it being “vewy vewy dark outside” and “maybe nightime” directly into my ear. I think I get to sleep again at about 4am, maybe for a couple of hours. The plus side is that S is so exhausted the following morning she sleeps in until 9.15am, so at least I have lots of time to apply under-eye concealer.
Going for a stroll on a romantic weekend
How to spend a Sunday morning in Paris? Strolling along the high line of course, admiring the elegant rooftops and boulevards of the city from above.
Going for a stroll with a toddler
“Remember when she was a baby and liked being pushed really fast over bumpy surfaces to get to sleep? We need to do that” I tell my husband, as we bounce the buggy along the riverside pathway next to Hampton Court. Because we are terribly weak-willed, my daughter still has a dummy to sleep, so we shove that in and pray for a nap, which she desperately needs after spending what felt like two weeks playing in the Bushy Park playground in the morning (again, minus 10 degrees). S asks to lie down, then sit up, then lie down again, so we spend the whole walk rearranging the buggy before she falls asleep five minutes before we get back to the car. We do manage to have a lovely conversation about South West London geography though, and our varying views on Surbiton, which S doesn’t seem that interested in.
Heading home from a romantic weekend
On the Eurostar home, my husband and I talk about what a great time we’ve had. ‘Couple time’ often falls low down the list once you have kids, and all too often involves sitting next to each other on the sofa eating jacket potatoes and watching The Last of Us. Having proper time together reminded us of “the old days”. It was fun.
Heading home with a toddler
We drive home, S contentedly babbling in the back about how much she enjoyed the “hotale” and “the sausage” and “the enormous big playground with lotsa slides and dwagon”. She has clearly had a whale of a time, and I have to, even if there was precisely zero in the way of relaxation or free time (the Henry VIII video doesn’t count, okay?) “We should do this again” I say to my husband. “It was fun”.