Christmas still going on with catch ups with relevant people who, for whatever reason, were unable to catch up during the “usual” couple of Christmas Catch Up Days.
Today was my mum, who worked over Christmas. Also, a long lost cousin (not really, just we don’t see each other much) was in Melbourne and a catch up was declared.
It was decided we needed to “ride the planets”, which we walked several times this time last year. Effectively, “the planets” are a to scale (one billionth of the size) replica of our solar system, commencing with the Sun and concluding, 6.5 km down the bike/walking/rollerblading track, with Pluto. And much discussion about the fact that Pluto is actually no longer a planet, and, quite frankly, I’m sick of hearing about it.
Also, they are along the St Kilda foreshore. And the one in Port Melbourne. It’s a long ride. If you are the mother of a whingey seven year old. And a ten year old with Kamikaze tendancies.
I neglect the “naggine re suitable dressing of children” as I am clearly deficient at that particular task anyway, and concentrate on myself. Herein lies the dilemma. Nothing fits me well. We are going for a bike ride and I like to wear exercisey, bikeridey kinda gear. But we are also heading out to dinner afterwards and don’t wanna look like I’ve been dragged through a bush backwards. I do a good job of that without doing the workout and looking all sweaty and ragged anyway.
I did that thing Mums too (or, I hope other mums do it. Is it just me?) where you put on some good-ish clothes, because you’re going out for dinner later, but not your good good clothes, cos you are exercising. You look “respectable”. At least you hope you do. And you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you are. By “you” I mean “me”.
After spending 10 years wearing nothing but runners (it was my job), save for the time I was my cousin’s maid of honour and she made me wear the highest heals in the church with the longest isle in Townsville, and another 10 wearing sensible shoes, because I had toddler boys to run after, I chose the runners.
Yes, nice top, nice-ish 3/4 length denim pants and runners.
Noice. And all pointless as halfway there I discovered smooshed biscuit on my shoulder. Interesting as the top had only just come out of the drawer and I’m fairly certain no one had eaten biscuit. Nevermind.
We arrive, remove the bikes from the bike rack on the car, add Chippie’s bike seat to Grumpy’s bike and off we go.
We had an extra two bodies with us this time, my cousin and the son of my mum’s friend. Just to make it more convoluted than it needs to be. They helped with the kids.
It is around this point at I notice Monkey Boy is wearing the shorts that I requested, not three days ago, he place in the bin as they had two great rips across his bum. Also he is wearing bright green undies. Just in case you missed the fact he had rips in his shorts.
I also worked out why bike riding is difficult for me. It’s not, or not entirely at least, due to a fairly horrific bike accident I had when I was a kid that leaves me just a little bit paranoid and panicky. I still have the scars from that incident.
No, its the riding behind the seven year old, ignoring his whining (which was actually at an all time low today – maybe we’re getting somewhere), constantly checking in to see how far we’ve gone and attempting to assess the exact moment we need to turn around to come back, before it reaches to “gone to far” stage and the whining turns into crying, then tantrums and you have to seriously consider pushing two bikes and dragging a tantrumming child with only two hands, tired legs and a rapidly fraying temper. Or having a screaming tantrum yourself, and listing to crying whinginng on the way back.
Of course, there’s also the avoiding oncoming traffic, avoiding other people’s kids on bikes, avoiding dogs running across your path, then stopping, avoiding the “professional” cyclists, who wear lycra, drink skinny, soy, decaf lattes and eat low fat raisin toast and stay upright yourself at the same time as watching for