Saturday morning. The small one is wielding a mop and royally compromising the bigger one’s iPad time. Rain pelts down with the relentless force of [email protected] dogs of war, and my wife and I give one another the pleading, desperate look that screams: IT’S 8 HOURS TILL THEIR BED TIME. If I recall correctly, I’m sure she said something about drugging the children but then again I best let her off: She was on her third vodka of the day.
As Baby Jake gabbled away on our telly and wandered off with his freaky cartoon legs (YouTube him and say hello to therapy) we knew there was only one thing for it: The NS bloody C. After the hour or so it takes to clothe the two eels we deem our offspring, we made our way to the centre of sporting magnificence. We parked up and I felt that familiar feeling I get whenever I spot the cat in a swimming cap: Maddening confusion. Cats can barely swim! I bring it up every time. McWife ignores me before muttering something about “letting that sh!t go”. I swear that cat is judging me. I can barely tread water and this feline fuck is flaunting his aquatic mastery. Pr!ck of a cat.
After dressing the miniature [email protected], we take a deep breath. Here’s our account of the ultimate parental sacrifice from our perspectives:
McWife: I paid £30 for this cossie and a good £5 of it is up my @ss crack. Hell. How the frick do I subtly remove this wedgie from my rectum whilst holding this little but incredibly heavy madman with nobody noticing?
McHusband: Right. Suck that gut in. Just because you drink craft beer now doesn’t mean the rolls are any classier. Christ, there’s Steve from Accounts. Of course, he’s got a bloody six pack. And, what is that? Is that a tattoo of a…a lizard? Hmmm.
McWife: This is a living hell. Why do I keep having to bend down and pick this maniac up whilst wearing so little? In front of other humans. Humans with nice tits and no cellulite? Stop grabbing me you mad bastard! Great. My hair’s wet now. If only my neck was longer I could keep it out of the water. Stupid tiny neck. She’s got a nice neck. And dry hair. Bitch. Where’s our other child?
McHusband: I wish he’d just get into the bastarding water. But no no. Instead, his favourite game is to run around the perimeter like a topless Crash Bandicoot. I can feel Steve from Accounts judging my bouncy Baywatch man pecs. F#ck you Steve you Lizard loving Adonis! Maybe he’s a David Icke fan?
McWife: There must be a lot of bacteria in this pool. Oh Christ-he’s standing still and looking serious. I hope he’s not having a dump. What happens if it starts floating? Do I have to use some sort of net to scoop it out? Quick sniff. Phew. He must have been contemplating the meaning of life as a one year old.
McHusband: Why did you have to steal Steve’s kid’s float, son? Why, why? By all means thieve. It’s a dog eat dog world lad!! But not Steve the Lizard’s younglings. Now I’m embroiled in an interminable conversation about Fatherhood and smoking your own brisket. Tuck that gut in, McFaull. For the good of the land.
McWife: That’s the second time I’ve given Paula the raised eyebrow. It’s a common greeting in uncomfortable situations. We’ve worked together for f#ck sake! Why isn’t she reciprocating? When did I learn the word reciprocating? McHusband would be pleased with that…
McHusband: I think I need to pee. I wonder if it turns green like Danny Crowe said back in Primary school…
McWife: Paula has cellulite! I f#cking love Paula. And she’s given me an upward shoulder shrug and an awkward smile across the pool. Her child is having a meltdown. Paula looks like she wants to cry. I’ve always loved Paula.
McHusband: I wish I hadn’t come here during Movember. I’m getting a lot of strange looks from parents. Bollocks. Try not to look shifty. F#ck, my not looking shifty look makes me look even shiftier. McWife has given me the eyes. We best skedaddle.
McWife: He needs to shave that f#cking thing off. He looks like a creepy Ron Burgundy. I better get him out of here. He’s a liability. Shit! Where is that little git off to? Yes, thank you for the condescending look Mr Hasselhoff!
McHusband: Good luck getting that little madman out of here. At least I have the reasonable, mature 4 year old. Who is presently sobbing uncontrollably. The prospect of a post-shower swim is too much to bear, apparently. Devastating. I brought my Original Source Shower Gel and everything.
McWife: I’d hate to be the parent of that wailing kid. Ah sh!t.
All in all, it’s a clock-watching, self-conscious, semi-naked, ego-shattering, stress-inducing, awkward as Curb Your Enthusiasm day out. All for the kids. Who would rather have gone to Maccie D’s. WHERE’S THE BOOZE.