My son, the diplomat, Part II

Of course, what Babe said at the end of my penultimate post, was repeating exactly what I had said when we set off an a Family Day Out to a rescue establishment of the bovine variety at 8am last Sunday.

A day later, he interrupted our bickering thus:
'Don't speak to mummy like that, daddy!'
'I'm sorry,' says OH.
'Mummy, daddy says sorry,' says Babe.
'I'm sorry, too,' I rejoin, giving OH an unpleasant hand gesture as Babe turns his back.
Shocking, I know.

I am determined to put this phase behind us, and some fun back into family life. I am sure the constant stressing and bickering is upsetting Babe. So I try to suggest we do something nice together at some point during each weekend. (Incidentally, we're all upset, not just Babe. New Babe probably thinks that people only communicate without shouting on birthdays and thier own Saint days.)

To be honest, I don't look forward to weekends at all as weekdays are simpler, despite being pretty heavy-going for me. We usually survive Saturdays and Sundays by taking turns to take Babe out while I clean the house or, when it's his turn, OH chills on the sofa. My ultimate aim is to achieve the cleaning, shopping and cooking during the week, so that I can get some rest at the weekend too, or at least not get irritated by how much there is to do and attempt to chill. Babe has started saying, 'Just chill, Mummy!', which drives me insane. Learnt from OH of course.

But, back to our last Family Day Out (sorry for all these bits in brackets, I am trying to cut down on them) unless we get Up And Out, Babe is likely to drop off en route wasting valuable RandR time for us. Which is why I insisted (begged, prostrated myself on the floor, cried, made offers of one BJ per month etc etc) that we leave early. Unfortunately I had not checked the opening times of aforementioned bovine establishement, and we ended up bickering in the car park in the drizzle for an hour when we got there. Not a nag in sight, but a clearly testosterone-fuelled young farm hand revving a quad bike desguised as a bull that pulls a line of passengers around the paddock for about £30 quid a head.

I am fast learning that Babe doesn't mind where we are as long as a) we are not arguing and b) he has a little mate or two to play with. He runs up to kids anywhere and asks what their names are and then stands as close as can to them until they start involving him in thier play.

Last Sunday, we were pretty much the only ones there. We made a cursory tour of the stables, slid down the slides whooping as loudly as we could, so that he'd feel the place was fun and lively, and then mustered the energy to leap over some kiddie-style horse jumps in the outside area with him. There were wasps everywhere which was making me nervous, as OH has a serious allergy but does not carry his epi pen with him. (I know!!) Then the one or two other visitors started to convene near the paddock for the 'bull ride'. We argued briefly as to weather Babe could go on alone, then agreed that he and OH should go on together. Just as well we did, as it bounced about all over the place. Babe loved it. I giggled a lot at the sight of a very cramped OH, knees about his ears, trying to control just how hard Babe bouced against his crotch.

We left, following some obligatory purchases in the gift shop: Babe, some mini aeroplanes, me some fudge - boy, did I need it, OH a horse brush (don't ask).

We arrived back home at about eleven thirty, every bit as exhausted as if we'd been out for the day. Which made the entry fee quite good value, I guess. Babe and New Babe were asleep in the car. So OH chilled on the sofa and I - well, I'll leave what I did up to your imaginations.