Trying to find time to work was hard enough as a stay-at-home mum of one – then he gets his 15 funded hours of preschool time and I produce child number two and now it’s nearly impossible. Even when The Boy is at preschool The Girl can be guaranteed to nap-refuse just as I most need time to get stuff done, or will wait until I finish the housework and then wake up, leaving me with no time to do any work work.
So I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I was going to write a no-holds-barred expose of soft play hell, based on a couple of experiences I had had. They’re loud, drafty or hot, smell peculiar and often seem unclean. Children run rampant and feral and the whole experience feels like a hyper-coloured scene out of Lord of the Flies.
So my heart sank somewhat when, due to the ‘inclement’ (read: fucking miserable) weather, The Man proposed we ran the fidgets out of The Boy at a softplay in Didcot they’d been to before. I reluctantly agreed to go along as The Girl was on day two of a feeding frenzy that left me with no free hands and a desperate need to get out of the house in an attempt to save some of my last remaining sanity.