Nightclubbing Two Year Olds

Suss.  Definitely suss.

I've been taking the girls to an abundance of activities lately.  If the truth be known I can't really be bothered, and would rather put on that stupid knob in his pajamas and that squeaky voiced owl puppet and go back to bed......But, I'm figuring that soon I'm going to be in a place that 99.9% people have never heard of.  A place where the only choice of activities will be scratch your mozzie bites, or sweat a shitload.  So it's now or never.  Anyway, I'd been suspecting we may have some social issues going on, when one of my girls ran screaming from a piece of play equipment in the park because a baby crawled near it.  

It's a tutu extravaganza

It's amazing how cute you can find it when your child waves a couple of poms poms to some lame tune,  or does the hokeypokey with a bunch of strangers.  I was in hysterics when Valli did her best "surprised look" at the command of the dance teacher today.  However, Chalks remarked that it actually reeked of "Toddlers and Tiaras".  I went red, and tried to feebly laugh it off.  I've really got to cut down on my viewing.  In the face of shoving, howling, teddy snatching, parachute ripping and magic wand bashing, I was initially pleasantly delighted that Valli and Cordi were participating like angels.  However, when Chalks expressed concern that they were almost too compliant, I too got more and more worried, and wanted to scream out "What are you robots? Bash someone dam it".  Later we agreed that goodie goodies are desirable.  The last thing we want either of them to end up as, is us.

At least I wasn't the mother reeling in my out of control child basher

However, some activities are neither cute or desirable, and should be avoided at all costs.  I'm talking about those horrendous indoor play centres.  I forgot how much I hated them, and took the girls there on rainy Tuesday.  What is wrong with me?  How could I forget that apart from being one of the dirtiest and most likely disease spreading places in the universe  (that mini kitchen set is surely home to hand, foot and mouth disease) - they are hard hard work.  Never fool yourself that you will kick back with a latte and read about the latest crap from the Kuntrashians.  Instead you will be crawling around in finely crushed Burger Rings, hauling yourself up slopes with those mini pegs in them - designed only for tiny feet, getting concussion from some hard headed brute while you're trying to get your kid's shoes off in the jumping castle.  And worst of all, getting unidentified and moist green stuff all over your cream trench coat as you roll down one of those ridiculous inflated slides.  Forget your latte.  You can't even go to the toilet.  At one stage, while hauling the girls up the last couple of giant padded steps, I locked eyes with a heavily pregnant woman rescuing her three year old off a ceiling-high rope bridge.  The bloody thing was like a tight-rope.  I prayed the girls wouldn't spot it as a fun alternative to the jumping castle. I saw the pain in that poor woman's eyes, and I'm sure she saw it in mine.  We needed no words.  "This is completely FUCKED" emanated from our every pore.

At one stage I lost both of them in some kind of tunnel system.  I could hear one screaming "Mummy Mummy" and raced around the edge trying to look in each exit point.  There was no choice.  I had to go in.  It was claustrophobic and terrifying.  A group of small boys came straight for me and crushed me against the side as they clambered past.  I was sweating in a jumper, coat and scarf crawling around in the dark calling out "Cordi!  Valli!".  I finally found an exit and came out to see Cordi casually hanging out going "What are you doing Mumma?"  Good question.  The other one hadn't showed up. So in I went again.  There was a Huggies in the dead end - I backed out quick.  More and more crawling.  No Valli.  I couldn't take it.  Who cared if she was in there permanently, I had to get out.  Unfortunately she didn't show.  I was about to call for help, and envisioned them cutting the tunnel deathtrap open with a chainsaw.  It was appealing.  Then I heard screaming behind me.  I knew that scream.  I had heard it 50 times a day for the last 1006 days.  It was deeply imprinted in a dark place.  I raced over to see "Baby B" hanging upside down out of a plastic helicopter - with some stuck-up bitch going "Whose child is this?"  I ignored her and grabbed Valli.  There was definitely relief.  Until I noticed Cordi had gone back in the tunnels.

I'm not going back in there Cordi

Don't touch those grotty things girls... 

Those places really are nightclubs for kids.  They look unimposing from the outside,  There is no noise.  No sign of what awaits behind that door.  You enter with trepidation, and there's some hard-arsed bitch on the door.  She takes your money.  Stamps your hand.  You get a drink coupon (Unfortunately the hardest beverage is Gatorade).  Then it's straight into the chaos.  There are maniacs everywhere.  They are screaming, running, twirling, climbing, pushing, puking, shitting, fighting, rolling on the floor, throwing themselves all over the show, breaking shit.  It takes them a little while to warm up, but then your very own (and you by default) become part of the chaos.  Drugs help ease this transition.  The only difference in this pre-school nightclub, is that the drugs are on full display, they are sold by a weight afflicted woman called Beverly, and the mums buy them for the kids.  Naturally, the drug of choice here is the one and only.....sugar.  MSG runs a close second.  

The good gear - get on!

To further complete the nightclub analogy, your hard won table gets immediately swooped on when you turn around to do up a shoelace.  Then, as soon as you decide you are leaving, you lose your bag for twenty minutes, and later find it has been kicked into a corner.  The same goes for all your jackets, which turn up in lost property after asking three different people if they know what happened to them.  By the time you stumble outside, all confused and dehydrated, with no idea of what time it is, you can't remember where you parked your car.  As you feel in every pocket for your keys, you realise that all your money went on Gatorades that all got knocked over after one sip.  You've got a stress headache, you stink of B.O, and your entire application of mascara sits in your eye bags.  

I then weep inside and vow NEVER to do it again.  I'm sure I mean it.  I just hope the girls didn't get kiddie VD (i.e school sores) for indecent contact (too much handling in the "ball pit") with some of the more undesirable clientele.   Hey!  I just found my drink coupon in my pocket.  I wonder if I can exchange it for a vodka at a real nightclub? All I can say though, is get me home with a couple of Panadols and the couch.....And more to the point, where's Jimmy Giggle when you need him?