Best Weekend #1

I knew I’d gone too far when I draped a snake around my daughter’s neck and let my son kiss a monkey on the lips.

Let me explain, before I get a call from the Department of Community Services.

Like many guilt-ridden working parents, we try to jam-pack weekends and school holidays to make up for lost time during the week.

Last Saturday, my crack at the title of Mother of the Year began swimmingly.

I planned to make a nutritious breakfast before popping the kids in the shower, dressing them in freshly pressed, colour-coordinated clothes then taking them for an 8am play date at the park, followed by art classes at the local library.

The day began badly when Taj woke the entire neighbourhood at 4-05am, screaming “Zombies! In the corridor! Aaaarrgghh!”

Dammit. I knew I’d been letting him watch too much Ben 10.

After ascertaining that there was no horde of undead roaming the house (what is the collective noun for zombies?) I tucked the terrified four-year-old into bed for the remaining two hours’ sleep.

Or so I thought.

At precisely 7-37am, we were shaken from our slumbers by the three-year-old: “Mummy, I wet the bed!”

There was no time to lose.

I chucked them in the shower before dressing them in crumpled, mismatched clothes, shoving dry toast down their throats, racing to the playground, the library, a soccer lesson for Taj then swimming class for Grace.

Driving home I was reflecting on what a success the day had been, when the tiny terrors began bashing each other in the back seat.

Suddenly, my Mother of the Year mask slipped to reveal an exhausted, ragged harridan.

“You kids are so bl**dy ungrateful! I’ve done everything for you today. And this is how you repay me!” I railed.

It was a rant worthy of Paul Keating. (Except without saying ‘scumbags’ or ‘24-carat pissant’. I think.)

I spent the rest of the weekend smacking the kids for minor infractions and wondering where it all went wrong.

We made the same mistake last school holidays on a trip-of-a-lifetime to Morocco.

After a month of camping in the desert, riding camels, climbing the Atlas Mountains and haggling in the souks, we wanted to know what their favourite part of the holiday was.

Maybe it was watching the snake charmers in Marrakech?

Hugging and kissing the performing monkeys?

Or riding a ship of the desert which, inexplicably, ran aground? (“Mummy, camel’s not working. Make it go again.”)

Instead, they fixed me with smiles as wide as the desert, yelling in unison “The pool! At the hotel. Yaaaay!”

Great.

Coulda taken them to the Andrew Boy Charlton and saved thousands.

This taught me a valuable lesson.

It doesn’t really matter what you do with the kids.

All they want is to spend time with you: playing in the backyard; swimming at the beach; rumbling in the park; pointing out that 42 is REALLY OLD while cracking up laughing at your expense.

So this weekend, we’re taking a leaf out of Steve Downie’s book (pg. 8) and spending $2.50 for a Family Fun Day on Sydney’s ferries, buses and trains.

After all, it’s not about the destination. It’s the journey that really matters.