Ok, so I think it’s pretty safe to assume that as the Easter holidays approached, 2-4 weeks with your little darlings laying ahead of you like a gauntlet of bank balance hating activities and continuous feeding, you didn’t stop to worry about what clobber you might don in these parentally stressful times. But I’m always up for shoe-horning a bit of retail therapy into even the most tenuous of excuses, so bear with me.
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If you’re anything like me a month ago, you probably haven’t heard the word Kynren, unless you’re an avid watcher of my insta-stories, in which case a couple of Thursdays ago you would’ve been bombarded with my word du jour (I’ve uploaded the stories HERE for your viewing pleasure!). So, without keeping you on the edge of your seats, what is Kynren? Kynren is an outdoor spectacular of a show, which takes place through the summer months in the beautiful, almost Teletubby Land-like, lush green hills of Bishop Auckland in County Durham; each of the 17 shows, which “start in daylight and end in starlight” crams 2000 years of British history into 90 minutes, showered with fireworks, peppered with live-stock and a cavalry of white horses to boot, all with bucket loads of nostalgia.
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It seems like only a few weeks ago I was writing about why we didn’t “do” presents last Christmas for all the boys – and yet now, my Grinch like antics have spread like the Child-Catchers sneeze of doom to Casper’s second birthday this coming Monday. Yes, my darling little cherub of a ‘baby’ is turning two and what are we, his abnormally large immediate family doing about it? Diddly squat, that’s what?! There’ll be no Daily Mail headlines of this toddler’s parents lavishing him with a diamond-encrusted tractor ride party at Daylesford Farm with Mr Tumble and co as special guests, at a grand cost of £237k; in fact, the headline will just about make it to my personal Facebook page and perhaps my Instagram, with a modest picture of the tot in question ramming his face with the Asda equivalent of Colin the Caterpillar cake. Last minute guilt might also manifest in the shape of a Gruffalo helium balloon.
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I’ll be honest, I’ve recited this post in my head a thousand times – never getting further than the fourth line. I’ve promised (my instagram following and myself) for a few months that I’d share what it is exactly that we’re going through with my beautiful, biggest bean – Hugo. Sometimes things are just too great to share in a social media caption, and definitely too monumental to squeeze into a 15 second instagram story. But the main reason I’ve procrastinated over this tome for the past two months – abandoning all other writing until this was complete, is that it’s hard to write about something when I’m not sure where it began, it feels like we could be in the middle and I most certainly don’t know if it will ever end.
But even before I begin, a preface if you will, I need to mention a couple of things. As always, I have Hugo’s permission to share our story. Secondly, Hugo, 85% of the time is a wonderful, intelligent, talented, sporty, witty and glorious person. It’s unfortunately that the other 15% is coming close to ruining our lives and Hugo is adamant there is nothing he can do to stop it. We’re trapped on Hugo’s emotional roller-coaster – I just hope someone finds the brakes or gives us a soft landing when we crash.
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It’s not often I whoop and holler in excitement at a brightly coloured object – partly because, as a toddler mum, they usually come with flashing lights and an incredibly irritating tune. But the moment I set eyes on my Melrose Mac at Fatface HQ it was love at first sight. As a mum of footballing boys, until this season, I’ve been remarkably ill equipped on the waterproofs front, so it’s no understatement to say my new canary hued friend has been a game changer.
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