“A walk in the park”
In my opinion, its possibly the most ironic and ridiculous saying of all. A walk in the park, like they’re referring to a spa, a yoga retreat, a farmer’s market brunch or any actually relaxing places?!
Now, I don’t know what kind of parks these people who say “it’s like a walk in the park” go to, but a trip to the park in our world is NOT even remotely relaxing. As a matter of fact, there’s no walking – merely sprinting after an over excited toddler running straight for the pre-occupied swings about to be drop-kicked in the face or lifting said seriously heavy (may I add) toddler off the pavement during an almighty tantrum over ice cream. What kind of maniac’s idea of relaxation is this?!
Unfortunately for me, we live facing one of these ‘relaxing’ parks, something that seemed such a lovely idea when we bought the house. How wrong we were. We go to the park every day. Every damn day. Come rain or shine or sleet or snow.
Of course, we have to take the bike every time too, so the what should be a two-minute journey across the road, takes twenty. I’ve lost my voice before we’ve got there because I’ve had to scream “stop at the end!!!!” thirty times already, because apparently the only time that Toby’s bike breaks don’t work are as he’s nearing the edge of the curb and a van is flying around the corner. Obviously. I swear the little old man who lives next to the doctors thinks I’m a complete lunatic and he wouldn’t be far wrong. I’ve named him Kevin, but I’ve no real idea of what his name actually is.
We get there and the usual forage of having to push him back and forth on the swings for seven hours commences. This always looks a lovely child and parent bonding activity when I observe others doing it, but not my child who is a complete adrenaline junkie and nothing less than putting every ounce of effort you’ve got into every push will do.
Then there’s the fireman poles that he insists on doing despite having prior almost knocked his teeth out on multiple occasions. There’s no warnings for those either, he just jumps your either there to catch him or you’re not. He doesn’t give a shit either way.
After that there’s usually always some kind of bike riding or running race/contest with a random kid he’s challenged on the park. God help us all if he doesn’t win. But there’s not much chance of that, because for one he’s the most competitive child I’ve ever met and two he’s fucking rapid. Usain Bolt needs to watch his back.
All of this adrenaline pinching fun is usually followed by an ice cream from the parks cafe on the way back home. We try to limit Toby’s sugar intake through the week because he’s so sensitive to it, adding sugar to an already hyperactive child is the equivalent to pouring a can of petrol over an already out of control fire. It defies any reasonable logic. So, he knows he’s only allowed “treats” at weekend. And don’t we know it. He asks us every morning what day it is and wakes us up at 6 am on a Saturday morning shouting “ITS SATURDAY, CAN I HAVE SWEETS NOW?!” So, on a weekend we’ll let him have one.
Every. Single. Time. We have this conversation “I’ll have a blue one please!” Toby you don’t like blue, you just like the colour blue but you don’t like the flavour. “No, I do, it’s my favourite, I want a blue one”. Toby, you don’t, you say this every time and you have one lick and say you don’t like it. “No, no mummy, I used to do that when I was three but now I’m four. Blue is my favourite. It is. Honest”. Ok, well I’m not getting you another one if you don’t like it. “I do honest. I love blue” ……….. “mummy I don’t like this one I want to swap it”. Cue monumental tantrum.
“The walk in the park” ends up me dragging a foaming at the mouth, screaming toddler back up the road in one arm, bike in the other, usually the dog chucked in to the mix as well to make things even more fun. That is the dog that won’t fucking walk anywhere and hates being outside, so I have to carry him everywhere. (We seriously may as well have gotten a pet Guinea pig). Back passed (Kevin) the old man who lives next to the doctors, I’ve only just realised whilst writing this how weird it is that he’s always stood outside in his front garden. I’ll give him a half eye roll/smirk in a desperate bid that he doesn’t think we’re the neighbours from hell, but I know I’m completely wasting my time.
We’ll get home and dry (there’s absolutely no doubt he will have thrown himself in a puddle of some form) and put the same episode of paw patrol on we watch every day. “The one where Ryder is dressed up as a Knight please” and a now calmed down and over ice cream palaver Toby will say “I love going to the park Mummy 😊”. ……I’d rather go to the fucking spa!