This is the siren call I am treated to every morning by Matthew, just after he has thrown an entire bowl of soggy Cheerios on my kitchen floor.
I sigh, pack the boys into the car, and head off to the local park. AGAIN.
We feed the ducks. (NO MAMMY. MORE BREAD!!!)
We meander through the foresty bit. (TREEEEEEEESSSSS! OUT! OUT OF BUGGY!!!)
We wave at the other mothers who wearily follow the same route every morning, as we approach the playground.
I steel myself.
This is where things get a bit hairy.
Once I release my kid from the confines of his buggy, I know that two things are going to happen:
He will immediately try to rob some other kids football (sorry. SORRY. HE’s only two… He’s not in crèche, he doesn’t know about sharing yet.)
He will then begin to scale the highest slide or climbing wall in the vicinity.
I will run around, wheeling the baby, pleading and begging with him not to fall on his head… Again.
At this point I begin to stealthily root for the bag of milky bar buttons I have in my pocket. Trying to hide my bounty from the other mothers, who are proffering carrot sticks and hummus, I will mutter out of the side of my gob “hey. Do you want some chocolate? If you get in the buggy Mammy will give you some chocolate.” Like a drug dealer.
I am like. A. Drug. Dealer.
But, needs must, and all that.