Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading!

by Suzy K Quinn

Mum grabbed the phone and shouted, ‘Ignore your Dad. Sod Zach’s parents – they’re not worth your tears. If you’re good enough for Zach, the rest of them should have nothing to worry about. Drink lots of wine, eat Swiss cheese, have as much fun as you can climbing those bloody mountains.’

  Laura stopped crying then, and talked about the lovely Alpine walks she had planned.

  Dad asked her to take lots of photos, but I hope she doesn’t. Pictures of beautiful scenery are incredibly boring.

  Nice evening with the family, eating Chinese takeaway before my pub shift.

  Mum ordered too much food as usual, so we couldn’t cram the mixed starters onto the table.

  Luckily, Callum made a shelf using Lego brick pillars and Daisy’s hardback Alfie gets in First book, so we had room for the spring rolls.

  Monday 28th May – Spring Bank Holiday

  The Co-op had short opening hours today, so I accompanied Mum and Dad to the big cash and carry supermarket.

  I should have known better than to go supermarket shopping with both my parents. The arguments started before we’d even got into the car.

  Dad enjoys money-saving and efficient shopping, favouring long-life products that can be easily stored in the kitchen cupboards.

  Mum likes any oversized food, such as T-bone steaks, catering-sized chocolate gateaux and whole roasted pigs. She also enjoys a special offer, which today included a box of 500 chocolate digestives.

  Tried to tell Mum that 500 biscuits were excessive for a normal person, let alone a diabetic.

  ‘But they’re so cheap!’ she kept saying.

  Forgot Mum and Dad have a hire car right now (their one is still being fixed), so mistakenly loaded up someone else’s old, silver Toyota.

  Then I sat in the passenger seat.

  Was mid-way through a rant about excessive chocolate digestives before I realised the elderly woman in the driver’s seat wasn’t Mum.

  The poor woman was cowering, hands protecting his face.

  I apologised profusely.

  The elderly woman apologised too, saying she’d never buy so many biscuits again.

  Tuesday 29th May

  Callum has been told to read more at home.

  Apparently, reading once a day isn’t enough – the teachers are demanding reading at breakfast, after school and bedtime.

  Talk about pressure!

  Dad believes Callum’s literacy problems can be blamed on the ‘tedious’ Learning Journey school books he brings home.

  ‘What you need are real adventure stories, Callum,’ said Dad. ‘Books that take you far and away and have you fighting dragons before bedtime.’

  Callum suggested Harry Potter, but Dad declared these books ‘grammatically poor’ and ‘full of logic holes’.

  Dad went up to the loft and brought down a selection of his own childhood books –stories about 1950s children who do things we consider dangerous nowadays.

  One book was about a five-year old called ‘Little Neddie’ who catches the bus to town by himself, fishes by open water and camps overnight on a stranger’s farm.

  Dad put on his special reading spectacles and said: ‘Strap yourself in, Callum. Prepare for an amazing literary adventure.’

  Callum was riveted, and especially enjoyed ‘Little Neddie Cooks Supper’ – a story about Neddie making his own bow and arrow, then shooting a chicken to cook over an open fire.

  Dad went all misty-eyed, talking about the freedom kids had in the fifties, and how our cotton-wool generation missed a real childhood.

  ‘When I was growing up, we spent all day outside,’ said Dad. ‘We were given a boiled egg and a slice of bread and off we went. There was none of this stranger danger – your parents only worried if you weren’t back for tea.’

  Mum reminisced about the polluted canal she swum in as a girl. ‘There was no health and safety in those days,’ she said. ‘The city canal was so polluted it sometimes caught fire.’

  Mum explained that on ‘flamey days’ they’d play hide and seek in the thick, billowing smoke. ‘But we had to put a time limit on it,’ said Mum. ‘Or you’d faint.’

  Wednesday 30th May

  Daisy got out of her cot at 5am this morning.

  How did she do it? The little escape artist.

  Then I put Daisy down for her nap just after lunch, and she appeared while I was on the toilet.

  Nearly had a heart attack.

  ‘Mummy poo!’ Daisy exclaimed joyfully. Then she turned it into a question. ‘Mummy big poo?’

  Quite clever how she’s grasping language now.

  Thursday 31st May

  Laura is back from honeymoon already. She was supposed to be gone another five days, but she said baby Bear got ‘homesick’.

  Reading between the lines, I think Laura struggled with baby Bear on their adventurous, outdoor holiday. No surprise, really. I thought it was brave taking a baby on a three-hour plane ride, let alone lugging him up Swiss mountains.

  Daisy was a nightmare on the short flights to and from Corfu – it’s very hard to keep your temper when someone repeatedly digs their elbow into sensitive body parts (boobs and windpipe).

  Mum was scathing of baby Bear’s ‘homesickness’, saying that babies ‘don’t know the difference between food and bits of dirt on the floor, let alone whether they’re home or not.’

  I disagree – babies do get unsettled in new environments.

  Daisy cried her head off the first time I took her into Tesco Metro. It was awful, because I struggle with the self-service tills at the best of times, let alone when I’m emotionally distraught. Tried to work out why my chocolate wasn’t scanning, while a queue of disgruntled executives tutted and glared, impatient to buy their stress-relieving prosecco and pinot grigio.

  Friday 1st June

  Brandi’s birthday today.

  We had a little family celebration with cake, sandwiches and gin.

  Brandi’s new boyfriend, Richie, sat with his headphones on, while Brandi drank two double gin and tonics and half a bottle of prosecco.

  It’s weird seeing Brandi with someone so quiet and shy, but they seem to rub along okay.

  Brandi enjoys someone she can boss around, and Richie clearly needs telling what to do.

  Saturday 2nd June

  Dad called a family meeting this afternoon to persuade us all to go camping.

  ‘The weather is warming up,’ he enthused. ‘Who’s up for a bit of woodcraft? Fishing. Barbeques. Late night games of cricket. Sleeping outdoors in the great British countryside.’

  We all said no, but Dad was insistent.

  ‘Every year, I get dragged to some overly-hot part of the globe and am forced to eat white bread,’ said Dad. ‘You all owe me a British holiday.’

  Dad has never liked sunshine. His body doesn’t get on with warm weather. I think it’s genetic, because there’s a whole album of his many blue-skinned cousins sweating and frowning in the tepid Scottish sunshine.

  It’s true – Dad does put up with hot weather every year.

  We’ve agreed to a very short camping trip at the end of June – depending on the weather.

  We’re all hoping it will rain.

  Will have to ask Althea for camping equipment. She’s good for that sort of thing, since she still visits festivals every year.

  Anything borrowed from Althea’s house smells of patchouli oil, but I don’t mind. It’s a step up from stale whiskey, which is what my tent used to smell like when Nick and I went to festivals together.

  Thank God I never have to do that again.

  Nick was such a little prince at music festivals. A prince and a liability, moaning about headaches and ‘suspected trench foot’, then getting absolutely hammered on various different drugs.

  Nick, off his face, is like one of those little Yorkshire terriers barking at big dogs. He finds the biggest, scariest man around and starts insulting him.

  At Reading Festival, he approached a heavily pierced and tattooed Scottish man and c
alled him ‘a big wussy girl’ for wearing a kilt.

  Luckily, the man wasn’t bothered by the slur. He simply lifted his kilt and showed Nick the giant dragon tattoo covering his whole penis and testicle area. Then he tied a pair of army boots to his testicles.

  It’s a miracle Nick’s only been beaten up five or six times.

  Afternoon

  Phoned Althea.

  She wants to come camping too and suggested we all sleep together in her bell tent.

  Althea is very pleased about the trip, because she’s missing out on some major festivals this year. Wolfgang’s estranged father plays at most of them and security won’t let her in.

  Althea and Wolfgang’s dad aren’t getting along due to visitation arguments.

  ‘It’s pathetic,’ Althea says. ‘A grown man, scared of a toddler.’

  But frankly, I don’t blame anyone for being scared of Wolfgang. He can be very fearsome and unpredictable.

  Thankfully, Daisy has learned to give as good as she gets. If Wolfgang takes a toy from her, she screams right in his face. Usually, Wolfgang grunts and hands back the toy.

  In the world of toddlers, I think this shows mutual respect.

  Normally, I’d tell Daisy off for screaming, but the rules are different when it comes to Wolfgang. Althea and I just let the two of them fight it out these days.

  Althea calls it, ‘child-led parenting’.

  I call it, ‘the law of the jungle’.

  Either way, Daisy is learning to be super tough. No one’s going to mess with a kid who can tackle a boy with a blowtorch.

  Sunday 3rd June

  Village summer fete today.

  Picked up Nana Joan and discovered she’s had a fancy new hair-do. All the blonde extensions are gone, and she’s opted for a silvery graduated bob.

  Nana doesn’t like the new look because it’s ‘aging’, but it really does look very nice. True, we had a panicked moment in the flower tent when we lost her among all the grey heads, but practicalities aside, the new style is pleasingly age-appropriate.

  At noon, there was a free ‘Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ for the kids.

  It included healthy food (brown bread sandwiches, cherry tomatoes, celery, cucumber and carrot sticks) and yellow food (white bread sandwiches, crisps, biscuits).

  The yellow food was immediately snatched up by chubby fingers.

  The healthy food remained untouched.

  After the picnic, the kids ran races.

  Callum won every race he entered and swaggered around wearing six medals.

  I was impressed, until he admitted he’d entered the under-fours category.

  Monday 4th June

  Althea phoned in a panic.

  Wolfgang has eaten a urinal cake.

  ‘He smells like the eighties!’ Althea fretted. ‘Even milk thistle and oregano oil aren’t cutting through it.’

  Wolfgang is in bed now, sleeping off the toxins.

  Advised Althea to go to A&E.

  ‘I don’t think things are that serious yet,’ said Althea. ‘But if he still smells like old-lady perfume when he wakes up, I’ll take him to the NHS walk-in centre.’

  Afternoon

  Wolfgang is fine.

  He no longer smells like the eighties and doesn’t need hospitalisation.

  I could hear him in the background when Althea called. He was grunting and snorting his way through a ‘massive restorative vegan curry’.

  Tuesday 5th June

  11.30pm

  John Boy just had a night terror.

  Woke up to high-pitched screaming.

  I didn’t realise what was happening at first, so shouted downstairs, ‘Turn the TV down John Boy – it’s gone eleven!’

  Five minutes later, I could still hear shouting, so I went downstairs to investigate.

  John Boy was lying on the sofa, eyes closed and gibbering: ‘You’ve got to warn the lads. There’s a bomb, a bomb I’m telling you!’

  He sounded like a bad actor in a 1950s war movie.

  ‘John Boy,’ I whispered. ‘You’re asleep.’

  John Boy wouldn’t wake up at first, even when I sat him up and played a pretend piano with his hands. But after a moment, he abruptly opened his eyes.

  ‘I let them down, Julesy,’ he said. ‘I let them all down.’

  Then he started crying.

  ‘Who did you let down?’ I asked.

  ‘The lads,’ said John Boy. ‘If I hadn’t got off the tank for a piss, I never would have got blown up. They risked their lives getting me back on. They got shot at. They could have died.’

  Then, just as abruptly, he fell asleep.

  I tucked John Boy under a tartan blanket, wiped his tears away and put a cushion under his head.

  Poor John Boy. That’s the thing with men. They keep it all in, don’t they?

  Wednesday 6th June

  Wolfgang started a new nursery today.

  I asked Althea how he got on, and she said the staff were racist and persecuting Wolfgang for his ethnicity.

  ‘What ethnicity?’ I said. ‘He’s white British.’

  Althea said racism was not always about ethnicity.

  ‘Well what is it about then?’ I asked.

  Althea said that self-expression was a form of ethnicity.

  Personally, I think she’s making excuses for Wolfgang’s feral behaviour.

  Sometimes, you just have to tell kids no.

  Thursday 7th June

  Callum has two wobbly teeth.

  He’s delighted, because he’s saving up for an expensive Walking Dead comic and thinks he can ‘bank at least a tenner’.

  Five pounds a tooth? This is Mum’s doing.

  That’s the trouble with grandparents. They totally spoil kids.

  Well, grandkids anyway.

  When we were growing up, the tooth fairy brought us 10p if we were lucky. And if we were unlucky, the tooth fairy forgot.

  Asked Callum if he wouldn’t prefer a nicer comic. Something less violent.

  ‘What about Spiderman?’ I suggested. ‘Or Superman?’

  ‘Superman is lame,’ said Callum. ‘The Walking Dead has proper peril.’

  Friday 8th June

  Nick just called. He claims he and Sadie have split up again and wants to have Daisy tomorrow. But he didn’t sound in the least bit upset and said ‘split up’ in a really odd way.

  Smelt a rat.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ I demanded.

  ‘Whispering?’ Nick whispered. ‘I’m not whispering. I just have a little bit of a sore throat.’

  I don’t believe Nick and Sadie have split up. I think Nick’s lying so he can have Daisy round his tomorrow. But then again, if he is telling the truth, it would be bad to keep Daisy away.

  Have done the unthinkable and texted Helen.

  She’ll know the truth.

  Saturday 9th June

  Queen Elizabeth’s Birthday

  Texted Helen last night.

  Woke up to find this reply:

  Greetings on the birthday of our great monarch, Queen Elizabeth II. A certain person will be at the Gables this weekend. Regards, Helen.

  At first, I was confused by the cryptic ‘certain person’ element of the message. Was she talking about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny? Or even the Queen herself? But then I read my message and understood what she meant. My instincts were right – Sadie and Nick are still together.

  Confronted Nick when he came to pick up Daisy, and he went all evasive and Nick-like, so I knew the text message was true.

  Shouted at Nick, then sent him back to his wicked witch.

  Daisy and I had a nice day, helping Mum do a pub barbeque to celebrate the Queen’s birthday.

  Mum doesn’t agree with the royal family, but does agree with barbeques, so cooked a lot of meat in the Queen’s honour.

  There was a bit of panic when Mum realised she’d left the sausages in the boot of the car overnight and they’d gone grey and smelt of vinegar.

 
‘You’ve got enough meat to feed the entire pub twice over,’ said Dad. But this didn’t placate Mum at all. Barbeques are one of the few things she’s image conscious about.

  ‘You can’t have a barbeque without sausages,’ Mum fretted. ‘What will people think?’

  Luckily, Malik saved the day by bringing a giant sausage wheel from the Polish deli.

  Mum was delighted – both with the sausage salvation and the ten-inch diameter portion.

  ‘There’s so much meat, it barely fits on the barbeque,’ she said, voice brimming with joy.

  Dad tried to mix things up a bit with some vegetarian options – carrot sticks, halloumi cheese, beetroot dip, etc.

  Most of it was left at the end. The pub doesn’t attract many vegetarians.

  The halloumi cheese was okay, but Callum had a point – it did taste a bit like hot play dough.

  Sunday 10th June

  Daisy has started vandalising things.

  Worried she might have emotional difficulties, due to the conflictual situation between Nick and I.

  Mum says she’s just a typical two-year-old. She even complimented Daisy’s rebellious nature, calling her ‘advanced for her years’.

  ‘You didn’t start vandalising stuff until you were nearly three,’ said Mum.

  Today, Daisy drew all over the dining table in permanent marker, smashed up a box of eggs and shredded my Contented Little Baby book with a pair of corrugated scissors.

  Put on my sternest voice after the book-shredding incident and told Daisy I was going to take her toy doggy away.

  Daisy pointed out, in her earnest two-year-old voice, that I’d already taken doggy away earlier, when she smashed up the eggs.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, rummaging around my sleep-deprived brain for a back-up threat. ‘Then you’ll never have sweets again!’

  Am dreading the day Daisy works out most of my heat-of-the-moment threats are unenforceable.