QUIET PLEASE

We’re walking across the beautifully manicured lawns of Sudely Castle. The scent of lavender and roses hovers just above us, honeybees and flies drunkenly hang in the warm September air. All is beauty, all serene, until “Ma, Mummy Juliet! The Queen’s bush has got a hole in it!” Is that yell really echoing all around the grounds and bouncing off the castle walls? Please tell me that the double entendre so loudly delivered by my son was only heard by me. Alas no, the looks have begun; divided neatly into either the kindly, indulgent “don’t worry, dear” or the “what the hell are you doing taking those noisy bastards anywhere other than a play dome”. Jesus, you’d think culture was only the preserve of the childfree. So there you have it. Yet again one of my kids has served me with a foghorn level reminder that even if they’re too well behaved to be seen, they’re gonna be heard.

We’ve been away these past few days on a little hotel break type thing to celebrate (or if truth be told, avoid) my fortieth birthday. More on the ageing process later. And all in all I’d say I had a good time. I’d rate hotel holidays with the kids over self-catering any time. But, but, but the petit bourgeois, ‘ever-so-humble in the face of authority’ side of me positively crumbled any time I thought that the kids were getting too loud or obvious.

The hotel where we stayed couldn’t have been more accommodating, but it was not a children’s’ hotel. So when we came down to the restaurant, the next thing to us on the decibel ratings was the sound of cutlery clinking, and beyond that just the occasional clack of dentures or tick of a pacemaker. On the night of my birthday the wine waiter told us that he wasn’t allowed to ‘pop’ the champagne cork in case it sent any of the other guests off to the next world a little unexpectedly.

With all of the above in mind, I went through seven shades of shame whenever either of them got a little loud. Billie yelling across the restaurant for cereal, Olly knocking over glasses and falling off his chair every five minutes, Billie demanding bottle as soon as she was bored, Olly kicking over the champagne bucket, spilling it all over the man at the adjacent table, it just did my brain in. I realized I was embarrassed by my kids; I wanted them to shut up, to disappear. I wanted to be like everyone around me: quiet.

That is until I heard someone criticize them. It was at the hotel swimming pool. Economic imperatives being what they are, the pool was alsoto the leisure centre members. And for some reason, the fitness fascists seemed to have a big objection to the kids being in the pool. Whilst getting changed I’d heard several exchanges between members about the exact times that children were meant to be in the pool and how it affected their swimming karma. One woman even questioned what sort of parents would allow their children out at 8 o’clock at night to swim. (As mine were always out of the pool by six I at least felt innocent of that charge). But it was on the final day of our stay, when Steve had taken the kids swimming so that I could pack, that finished me off.

I was waiting in the lobby for them to come out when I heard this woman complaining to the manager. Guess what? It was about Steve and the kids. Apparently he had actively been encouraging them to pee in the pool. She was calling the children disgusting and accusing Steve of appalling parenting. I sat there mortified as I heard her go on and on about my “revolting” kids. My first instinct was to hit her, to smack her full in her big mouth. My next feeling was of total despair for my babies were being so foully slandered by her. Then, horror of horrors, I realized that she could at least be correct about the peeing part. So rather than confront her I went to find Steve.

There they were, emerging out of the changing rooms, all damp and giggly and lurching about. As soon as they saw me the traditional yelling and whooping of “mumma bumma” (don’t ask) began and four little arms flung themselves around me. Steve and the kids assured me that the woman was completely mistaken, although they did admit to having had a rather loud and robust conversation about poo and wee. Armed with this information I raced back into the lobby to find my enemy gone. I realized then that I didn’t care about the noise, because noise means life, vitality, energy and the innocent pursuit of happiness. Not the stagnating, mealy mouthed, crushing silence or bickering that so many of us seem to descend into once divorced from childhood. So come on feel the noise, girls grab the boys etc etc etc.

Quote of the Week

Billie wailing vociferously.
Me: What’s wrong Bill?
Billie: Olly called me a bugger.
Olly: But I was only pretending.

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 4) and daughter Billie (aged 2 and a half) in Hertfordshire.

NEXT INSTALMENT: MONDAY 16 SEPTEMBER