Adventure Girl & The Homicidal Husband

The school run, pocket biscuits and potentially murderous birds

Welcome to Baby Brain, a space where I - Charlotte, hi! - write about my life as a mother of three small children - Poppet (m, 5 years), Pickle (m, 3 years) and Peach (f, 11 months.) Those are not their real names. These are real stories from our days.

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Like a pint sized Napoleon Dynamite, Poppet has started smuggling food out of the lunch hall in his pockets. I know this because: “I put a biscuit in my pocket mummy,” he told me, in conspiratorial tones, on the walk home from school, “so I can sneak tastes through the day.” He pulled out some crumbs and licked his fingers, looking pleased/devious, “no-one even knew I’d done it.” I cocked my head, unsure how to respond, before: “what else did you have for lunch?” I asked, praying there weren’t also beans in there. “Can’t remember,” he said. He took off his trousers when we got home, I folded them up and (without thinking) sent him in the same pair the next day - no doubt resulting in the surreptitious nibbling of yet more crumbs - and that was the end of that.

Every now and then I catch him dipping a licked finger into his pocket in what I assume is a repeat of his crime. I have decided to let it slide.

Vote for Pedro

This is my favourite story from the school run so far. I have others to tell, too.

*

Walking to and from school was always our plan. My children and I are obligate pavement pounders and are often praised by acquaintances and strangers alike for our commitment to travel by foot - something that makes me feel like a fraud because, actually, I’d love to drive - and this is no exaggeration - absolutely everywhere, but due to crippling anxiety /city dweller arrogance, I never finished getting my license. (MY BAD!) Planning the commute in the weeks ahead of the school run, then, I had the walk all mapped out: “Peach will get used to her pushchair by the time school starts,” I told my husband, “so Pickle will be on the BuggyBoard.” She did not get used to the pushchair. “I’ll put her in the carrier while Pickle is in the smaller chair, then” I told my husband. She does not like the carrier, either.

While images of muddy school shoes and children running in different directions had plagued my brain and made my nights sleepless, the sudden appearance of an aversion to being carried hadn’t crossed my mind. Alas, my darling koala bear of a baby has decided she is not a fan of being strapped to my chest after eleven months of *checks notes* being strapped to my chest, and I was left scrambling for a new plan as a result.

For posterity, there are two possible reasons why Peach doesn’t want to be carried:

1/ I got a new baby carrier.* (“Could it be the carrier that’s the problem?” my husband mused the other day, after I’d spent a week trying to work out why Peach is now so grumbly. “NO,” I told him, slamming about the kitchen in a rage. It could be though. It could be exactly that.)

2/ She’s learning to walk and has decided, in her infinite wisdom, that now she can do five very slow, wobbly steps in a row she is ready to take on the 25 minute walk into school, and is therefore furious that I, her oppressor, am denying her the chance to do so.

I don’t know which it is, but I have my bets on 2.

She’s a stubborn lass, my Peach pop, it makes me love her all the more.

The state of my old carrier by the time I decided to replace her. Cheers old pal, we had a good run. Also you might be out of retirement soon so try not to get too comfortable

*I wanted an Artipoppe but - three babies in - couldn’t justify the expense, and so bought another Ergobaby 360 on Vinted. I actually saw an Artipoppe in the wild for the first time recently on a woman at a woodland playground. Following her with my eyes: “she has an Artipoppe,” I whispered in hushed tones to my husband, who was deeply confused/unimpressed. I used to covet handbags, apparently baby carriers are now my jam. Also is it a therapy level issue to not understand the depths at which your partner desires a (somewhat) frivolous and (horribly) expensive item? Because if so we might be in trouble because - I kid you not - as I stalked that woman through a forest, he looked at me like I’d gone mad.

I really really really really really really like you, as Carly Rae would say

With both plan A (pram and BuggyBoard) and plan B (pushchair and baby carrier) around me in tatters, it was with apprehension that I began each day for the first few weeks of term, unsure as I was on how far we’d get before my youngest child started to scream. And I do mean SCREAM - back arching, headbutting, genuine tears. Things were starting to feel pretty hopeless, I’ll admit, until I remembered that bribery exists, and all was once again well.

Crisis numero une: Averted.

Crisis numero deux: Incoming.

Bribery, sponsored by Kallo blueberry and vanilla rice cakes

*

We were having a straightforward morning. We were halfway to school - Pickle happily disembodying Lego figures in his pushchair as Peach shouted at a couple of rice cakes from my chest - when a flock of jackdaws appeared to our left. Gripping the handle of the pushchair, Poppet came to from a daydream to ask me a surprising question: “Those birds aren’t big enough to carry me away, are they?” he said.

I looked at the birds, none bigger than a garden gnome (why does no-one have garden gnomes anymore?) and, startled: “I don’t think any bird is big enough to do that,” I told him.

“Daddy says some are,” he replied, solemn, “in other countries.”

I stopped, watching his little face crease with worry, exasperated that my husband’s excited sharing of facts had once again not come with an age rating. ‘This is the polar bears all over again,’ I thought, enraged. ‘He’s only just stopped asking if there are bears in the bloody duck pond.’

Smiling: “You’re safe,” I told him, along with some other gentle parenting buzzphrases I don’t think he listened to, but that I nevertheless felt compelled to say.

“Yes,” he replied, thoughtful “as long as I don’t go to other countries.”

Tentative, I broke it to him that we might, in fact, travel at some point to other countries. And then he started to cry.

Conversations with my husband

This is not the first time something like this has happened. Both in the respect of my husband saying too much and of Poppet breaking down en route to school (change is hard, school is change) and so I know how to deal with such things - by over explaining. As such, I started to incessantly chatter.

“I’ve been to other countries,” I began, flustered, as he swiped at his face with his sleeves, “I’ve been to other countries and not once have I been attacked by a bird.” His face was still crumpled, and so I soldiered on: “I once went to a place called Paris and ate lots of croissants, my friend fell in love with a hamster in a pet shop but I managed to talk him out of buying it. I went to a place called Berlin and went to an all night party in an abandoned swimming pool with a friend that knows Oasis - that’s a band. I went to a place called Turkey and did something called paragliding which is a bit like strapping yourself to a giant paper plane…”

“Wow mummy,” he said, sparkling eyes starting to dry, “what else did you do?”

“Well…” I said, blowing his nose, “I’ve been to Spain and Greece and read lots of books by swimming pools, I went to a place called Scotland which has lots of castles, I went to a country called Switzerland which had colourful houses with pretty wooden shutters on the windows and very good chocolate in the shops. I went to a place called Lake Tahoe where it was sunny AND snowy so I could snowboard and then go to the beach, and on our honeymoon daddy and I went to the alps.”

“Wow mummy,” Poppet said again, shaking his head in awe, “I didn’t know you were an adventure girl.”

I laughed. “Yes, I am an adventure girl,” I said, in the same tone as Harry Potter confirming that he is, in fact, the chosen one. And then, relieved to have alleviated his fears, I told him the story of what was technically his first holiday, smuggled in my womb like an undetected crumb in a school trouser pocket. One that, believe it or not, no birds tried to eat.

I shall now tell you that story, too.

*

I was pregnant on my honeymoon, despite what the missing second blue line tried to tell me. Having done not one, not two, but three tests ahead of boarding a plane to La Plagne - a ski resort in the French Alps - it was with a fair amount of certainty that I informed my new husband that I was not with child, freeing me up to do all manner of honeymoon things including, but not limited to, drinking wine, falling down mountains with sticks strapped to my feet, getting a deep tissue massage and smothering everything I ate in soft cheese. What a lush, you might be thinking, but let me remind you again that I did not know I was pregnant, which would be a fine excuse except, well, I sort of had an inkling that I was.

Let’s just say there were signs.

One of those signs being all of the crying.

Our honeymoon took place close to Christmas, a few months after our wedding. Married in a barn filled with fairy lights, we’d said our I do’s to a crowd of more than seventy people, many of whom donated generously to our honeymoon fund in exchange for the day of dancing, photobooth useage, foosball and enchantment at the hands of a magician. If that day was the best day of our lives so far, the honeymoon we would embark on thanks to those seventy plus people was set to be, we hoped, the best week.

So young, so well rested

And it was. It would have been. If it weren’t for all of the crying.

The first batch of tears appeared on arrival to our destination. After flirting with the idea of Venice, we’d decided on skiing instead and, entering the chalet described online as having a personal jacuzzi and a balcony, we expected grandeur. We expected grace. We got, instead, a run down bath with lacklustre jets, two single beds and a door that didn’t lock. Dramatic, I sat on my single bed, and sobbed. We were informed that while our chalet provided all meals, it was a set menu, and I would not be able to pick my own diet - I cried even harder. I cried at random a few more times and then, the pinnacle, I cried halfway down a mountain.

We were a few days into the honeymoon. Tearful entrance to our break forgiven (if not forgotten), we were now all in on our alpine break and, after a 10am hot chocolate, boarded a ski lift to a slope we hadn’t yet tackled. It was a red, which my husband told me meant intermediate. “You’re too good to keep doing the blue slope now,” he said, knowing flattery would get him everywhere, “the red will be a breeze.” Suspecting that the truth of the matter was that he actually wanted to try the red himself, and wanting to be the kind of wife that accompanies their husband on adventures rather than the kind I actually am (the kind that waves on from the sideline, hot drink in one hand and a book in the other) I had agreed, somewhat begrudgingly, and only after double and triple checking that the red wouldn’t be too hard.

“It’s only slightly harder than the blue,” he told me, blue being one step above beginner. “Yes but I’ve mostly been on the green,” I said, green being where all of the three year olds learn to ski while adults with accents scream “PIZZA!” at their tiny frames.

Alas, I went for it.

Alas, it was not an intermediate slope.

Stood at the top of a very steep mountain all on our own, I turned to my husband in horror: “There isn’t even a restaurant to ski to up here,” I chastised him, horrified not to find my favourite aspect of the holiday waiting for me, “there’s nothing but snow.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

Looking out over the most beautiful view I think I’ve ever seen, from the peak of the steepest drop I’d ever encountered, I started to panic. Making a reluctant start, I tried desperately to PIZZA as my skis went faster and faster, unable to fully control what I was doing as, actually, I only had 3 or 4 days on the slopes under my belt, and most of that was spent sitting down. Falling onto my bum no more than three minutes into our run, something flipped in my brain.

‘He’s trying to kill me,’ I thought.

Looking out over the scenic mountains, nothing but snow and cold air for miles around, I turned to my husband and - and remember now that I was unknowingly pregnant, and so very hormonal - threw what can only be described as a tantrum.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?” I screamed through heaving sobs, my nose streaming alongside my eyes. “THIS ISN’T AN INTERMEDIATE SLOPE, I’M GOING TO DIE UP HERE ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?”

My husband, bewildered, stared in horror before: “It does feel more like a black (/expert),” he mused.

Refusing to move, I glared at him as I shook with rage, angrily ranting as I started to shuffle down the mountain on my bum, refusing help of any kind from the man that would be my murderer.

“Come on Charl,” he groaned, “this will take all day.”

Wrong move.

“I DON’T CARE, GO ON WITHOUT ME IF YOU HAVE TO,” I yelled, absolutely livid and also, it has to be said, now quite cold in the bottom related area.

He sighed.

I shuffled.

Some rangers skied over to us to check I was safe after spotting ‘a lady in distress,’ I demurely told them I was ‘fine, thank you’ before once again accusing my new husband of ATTEMPTED MURDER. We reached the bottom. I am alive.

I bought a t-shirt last year that reminded me of this holiday, which I feel compelled to share with you now.

I have worn it but once

Just look at the tiny skiers, loving life, not a homicidal husband in sight.

Despite the impression my tear stained pillow would give, our honeymoon was a success. We went bowling and we went swimming and we ate our body weight daily in a meal that I can’t help but mention each time the subject of our honeymoon arises - tartiflette - the whole thing ending as it began - with me crying, this time over something suitcase related. When we arrived home it was with a shake of the head that my husband disappeared into his office, keen to hide in a computer game/to never see me again.

That night, lying on the sofa with the cat, I glanced idly at my Fitbit, and noticed my heart rate was high. ‘That’s weird,’ I thought. It had been high in the alps but I’d been blaming the altitude, and was puzzled as to why it hadn’t corrected. Listening to the little voice in my head that had spent a week trying to tell me Clearblue had been wrong, I went to the supermarket, got a pregnancy test, did the pregnancy test, and found out I was pregnant.

‘This explains everything,’ I thought.

I took the test to the office to confirm why I’d been crying.

Life marched tearfully on.

*

“So anyway, all of mummy’s meals had cheese on them in the mountains which was great, because I love cheese,” I told Poppet, wrapping up the story of my honeymoon and hoping it was enough to distract him from the idea of murderous birds (because, if you remember, we were talking about birds.)

“OK,” he said.

“I really, really liked tartiflette, Poppet,” I said, “I took the recipe from our chalet and I made it for you once,” I told him, “It had a grown up drink in it so I was a bit worried about it once it had been cooked, but you didn’t eat it anyway so it was fine.”

(Mummy felt a bit drunk after eating it, so was glad to have had it rejected, I didn’t add.)

He laughed.

“Do you think you might like to go to another country sometime?” I asked him, once his face had started to once again radiate sunbeams. “I can’t WAIT!” he said, excited, “can we go somewhere with snow?”

“Yes,” I said.

He smiled and, reaching the start of the queue into school just as my stories had ended, his anxiety slipped away in the face of fun to be had, as he ran ahead to greet classmates I don’t yet know the names of. Turning my gaze to all of the other parents, I wondered at when we’d all become friends. Still in the phase of trying to make a good impression, I smiled brightly around as people commented on Peach’s beaming grin, making small talk in my carefully applied make up and my earrings as I thought ‘please think me respectable, I love my son and want your child to want to be his friend.’ I was doing very well with my act, I think, until - marking the third crisis into which I will lightly delve - I made the mistake of pulling down the hood of the pushchair, which I found to be covered in what I can only describe as a large, blotchy white mark that looked like (rhymes with) Kerplunk. Eyeing it absentmindedly as I tried to work out what it was, I clocked just a moment too late that other people were looking at it too, and by the time I realised it was melted ice cream that had dried and then been rained on it was too late, the crowd had dispersed, I was the mum with the suspicious stain and there was nothing more to be done.

I averted two crises that day, apparently a third was a step too far.

Walking home, wondering how long it would take for the ice cream to wash away if I let nature take its course, I went past the duck pond - the one that does not contain polar bears, despite Poppet’s earlier fears. I stopped for a moment to think about how much the boys had laughed at those ducks on the way home the night before, about games of hide and seek and of climbing the fences and spontaneous babyccinos and how much I enjoy walking with them, actually, because they have so much fun walking home, and it feels like an activity all of its own. I was just remembering Pickle almost falling to sleep on his feet the night before as I tried to speed him up (and on the verge of beating myself up for doing just that) when a duck quacked so loudly behind me that I almost wet myself.

‘Maybe the birds are out to get us after all,’ I thought, speed walking away with one eye on the mallards.

‘Maybe we’ll walk a different way home.’

Excuse the state of my tablecloth, I have kids

Until next time ⛷

P.S.