Holidays part 1

I've been on holiday the past two weeks. It's been lovely. When I started to blog about my time off the first draft was a confused splice of zoos and childcare implications. It works better split in two. Next week's blog is about me and childcare; this week it's the Great British Day Out.

 

The Farm

I've wanted a dog as long as Bear and I have been together. She's always said to me 'you can have a dog when we live somewhere with a garden.' I've recently started saying 'I notice how the same rules don't apply to children...'

When I was little my Dad would threaten to send our pets to the farm. I struggled to see how useful Jimmy the budgie would be in the tractor driving department, or whether Donna the dog would fully comprehended the benefits of crop rotation.

It was only years later that I realised that when dad said 'farm' he actually meant 'slaughterhouse.' The old joker.

Bear knows all of this, so when I suggested taking Bug to the farm she gave me the look.

"No, no!" I laughed. "I don't mean like that!"
"Good," replied Bear.
"For now."
"What?"
"There's cows..."

I often get the look.

I digress. We went to the farm. Here's proof. Bug in a tractor:

The Beach

The farm bit had very little to do with farms.

I'll do better with the beach.

We bought Bug her first bucket and spade:

Sandcastles were built. I'm a father, she's a daughter. It seemed the thing to do. When I first removed the bucket leaving a perfectly formed sandcastle, Bug squealed 'oooooh!' delightedly and flapped her arms like a mental.

It was one of those moments when you realise the awe in which your child views you and the world you're introducing her to.

Afterwards we collected shells only for a bunch of bastards to steal them. I didn't see it coming. Nobody expects a well dressed, polite family of four to be a bunch of bastards. Two children came over and asked if they could play with Bug's bucket and spade. I said yes because I'm not a bunch of bastards. The mum of the family came over and started small talk while browsing the shells we'd picked.

The small talk stayed small until it talked itself out. The family said their goodbyes and left. That's when I noticed all of our shells were missing. A bunch of well dressed, polite bastards had stolen them.

I managed to take this photo as the bastards danced triumphantly away:

Not Swimming

We'd taken Bug to swimming classes every week for over 15 months. In January, the council closed down our local children's pool. It was losing money. I always assumed the long term health benefits for the area's children outweighed any monetary loss but then I am a fucking idiot.

A new swanky pool, The Royal Commonwealth Pool,  has opened in the centre of Edinburgh. We were very excited. We bought Bug a new swim suit. The night before I checked the website for opening times. 8am-10pm.

We got there at 09.05.

"Two adults and a little person for a swim!' I cheerfully said to the lady on the desk.

"The pool's closed," she replied. "TeamGB are training in it."

Now, I don't know much about swimming, but if TeamGB are training in a baby pool then their chances of Olympic gold are pretty fucking slim. I'm certain TeamUSA have got past the armband stage.

To lesson the blow, a friend pointed out that when Bug's older she'll be able to tell friends that she did her bit for the Olympics. 

Other things we did

We went to the zoo...

 ...explored nature...

 ...and chased bubbles.

Bye for now.

Xx