mutteringhousewife

Nothing fancy. You strap a luggage pod on the car, load up the kids and beach towels and most of your kitchen gadgets and head for the coast. It’s a very Australian summer holiday. The kitchen gadgets bit adds a touch of Inner West, but the principle is the same.

We’re headed for the South Coast, where my brother and his brood are already ensconced in a caravan park by the sea. They already have a gang of old school friends and new caravan park friends down there, but we’re horning in anyway, it’s difficult to get the cousins together. The rain is pouring down and I realise that I’ve made all the kids pack jackets, but have neglected to do so myself. We stop at a cafe on a very scenic lookout that is completely obscured by fog. The Muffet and Horror have vanilla and caramel milk shakes respectively. The Moose has vanilla and bull ant, a new flavour created specially for him.

I thought the idea of having electronic devices in the car was to keep the kiddies quiet. That’s what I’ve always heard. Well, not if they’re playing Monopoly on the iPad, that’s just as noisy as the paper version, only the Horror can’t throw it when he starts losing. I wish they’d play some kind of killing game, like those kids people are always complaining about when they’re reminiscing about how well behaved they were back in the good ole days.

As soon as we turn into the caravan park the kids leap from the moving car and disappear for half an hour. We find our accommodation, not cabins this time, but the freshly renovated apartments that are small but perfectly formed. When all the beds are unfolded there isn’t any floor space, but the bathroom is huge. From the balcony I can see the Horror organising all the little kids on the jumping pillow into some kind of bull rush game. There are six assorted children in various states of dampness eating chips on our lounge. I’ve sent dear husband off to the nearest bike shop to get the Horror’s Christmas bike amended. It came in a box, and I managed to get it into bike shape, but the handlebars are clearly and irretrievably on backwards, and they need professional help.

I think it may be cider o’clock.