Brighton Beach (bank holiday) memoirs

So this was the first Bank Holiday I've spent where I was away from my boy for a full 24 hours without seeing him at all. He woke up and went to sleep without me or Hubbie there to tuck him in and he slept fine and woke up full of the joys of a weekend spent with Grandma and Grandpa. I barely slept a wink (and not because of the sofa bed in my friend's house) and woke up feeling tired and wanting to call him. It was too early at 6am so I held out until after 8am and he was all cheery and waiting to tell me he'd eaten Weetabix and a Peppa Pig yoghurt for breakfast. Phew !!

Hubbie and I had a lovely leisurely Sunday morning with friends who treated us to a luxurious brunch and we even bought a Sunday paper which we later read on Brighton Beach. I recall years ago a friend telling us that once you have kids you'll never have the time to read a Sunday paper again. He was right as this is the first time since our boy was born that we have had the chance to. I also remembered my friend Lisa who came to our wedding sans infants as her two had gone to visit their Grandmother in Belfast with their Dad and she said she felt like a piece of her was missing the whole day. I felt like that this weekend.

I had a lovely time with Hubbie and it was great to go to a 2 day festival and do grown up stuff like getting stuck behind hundreds of mods on scooters on their way from Brighton to Eastbourne. We did make it to see the band just in time, but only just. Oh the spills and thrills !! It was even better as I knew from talking to our boy that he was having a wonderful time ruling the roost at his grandparents house so I wasn't worried about him at all. I did, however, feel like a part of me was not there. Everywhere I went I had to talk about him so everyone would know I am a Mum and I have a son and even though he isn't with me he is a part of me.

In his own way Hubbie also showed his parenting credentials by wearing his Daddy Pig t- shirt. However, standing in a children's playground unaccompanied by our son he did look a little suspicious so I have advised that in future he only wear it when he has the boy close by so that people don't mistake him for a wrong 'un.

When we got back to Grandma's late last night I put my head round the bedroom door to see my boy sleeping and my heart felt whole again. I slept soundly and woke up keen to hear the tell-tale jingle of his beloved bear that signals he's awake and moving around in bed. He smiled when he saw me and asked where Daddy, Grandpa and Grandma were.

Tonight when we were home and had our usual pre-bedtime chat about our day he told he he'd had a 'lovely holiday at Grandma's house.' I asked if he'd like to do it again and he said he would.

I hugged him a bit too tight and he put his arms around me.

Maybe next year I'll be a bit less anxious about it all.

There is a light that never goes out

Weekends are always packed in our family with my zumba class, the boys going to rhymetime and football and all of us going swimming. Fitting in anything extra requires logistics that would make the MOD proud. We did, however, manage to find a space in the schedule to attend an open day for a school this weekend. My boy loved everything about it and yelled like a banshee when we moved him from one fun filled room to another as he realised that all of it was geared toward keeping him occupied.

A bit of tutoring with Daddy

As neither Hubbie nor I went to an independent school it was a whole new experience and refreshing to meet teachers who can spell, use grammar and don't dress like I did in my second year at university. I'm not sure why we received a free teddy bear and a big helium filled balloon to take away with us, but I think that is designed to distract from the sting of the fees they charge. I did find myself picturing my son in a school with small class sizes, a swimming pool onsite and an interactive whiteboard in every classroom - including the nursery ones. 

Of course the point of an open day is to show the school in the best possible light and to sell it to potential parents. The main concern I have is whether considering a fee paying school for our son is a sign that we have entirely lost touch with our idealistic notions and rewritten our own history. From being an activist about everything at university to waking up one day middle aged is a salutary lesson.

However, I do console myself that at least I recognise that I'm not a fearless upstart any more. Imagine living with the massive denial that the former frontman of the Smiths labours under. Morrissey has never been a bundle of laughs. Witness the cheerless titles the Queen is Dead, Girlfriend in a Coma and Meat is Murder, as opposed to Vicar in a Tutu and Shoplifters of the World Unite which I thought demonstrated how the Smiths were funny and their lyrics amusing, but now I'm not so sure.

Hand on glove and plant in back pocket

There was a time when Morrissey was the angry young man and poster child for sullen and disaffected youth with his precocious commentary on modern life and all it's failings. Now he's an older man he still deigns to make controversial pronouncements from his cosy ex-pat life in LA where he thinks his teenage rants are still relevant.

Out of loyalty we still listen to his rants, but he's less a national treasure and more a Victor Meldrew figure with a cooler following (my father-in-law thinks One Foot in the Grave is hilarious, but he has no idea who the Smiths were). People of my generation still think Mozzer is like a cool uncle who used to take us to festivals and is now vaguely embarrassing, but we're still loyal to him out of respect for what he once was to us. Anti-establishment and so very clever.

I'm not saying I'm going to get rid of my weird and wonderful music, or give my tour t shirts to charity as a sign that I've grown up. After all I've still got my original Doc Marten boots to show my son when he thinks he's the first teenager to be rebellious and/or misunderstood. 

What I am saying is that when it's his turn he's going to have to go some to find a style of music and a political viewpoint that we find completely disagreeable. If he wanders into the house with a long floppy fringe and a canvas bag with Nine inch Nails written on it in felt tip I will smile knowingly to myself - I just won't let on to him.