Soft play, I hate you.

Next time my kids ask if we can go to soft play. Or worse. I suffer from amnesia (again) and suggest it. I’m going to say, ‘Hey! Let’s not. Let’s save 20 quid and all have a meltdown at home instead. FOR FREE!’

Wednesdays STILL suck.

If I had to write a fairy tale about Wednesdays, it would go like this.

Once upon a time there was a mummy and three kids. On a Monday and Tuesday they all lived happily at home, school and nursery with a minimum of one mile between each of them. On a Wednesday that distance was decreased to about 15 cm. And everything was shot to s***. The End.

It’s a bestseller, right?

‘Working 9-5.’

Today we were at soft play by 9.13 AM.

Yes, people. This is the magic of the school run. You can potentially have the equivalent of a full day’s work. AT SOFT PLAY.

Bet all you non-school-run-mums are pretty jealous right now, eh?


The delusion of soft play.

I always imagine that soft play will be good.

It’s enclosed. They have squishy surfaces to bolster insane toddlers. And they have coffee. What can go wrong?

About 7 minutes in, however, it goes wrong.

The Boy with No Name aka Illogical Toddler wants to eat his Hula Hoops. In the middle of the soft play equipment. But there is STRICTLY no eating. That’s what the tables at the side are for. Obviously.

So I tell him to eat nicely, at the table. He ignores me. I tell him again. He ignores me again. And instead of just letting him eat the sodding Hula Hoops wherever the hell he likes, I’ve now made a stupid point in front of the other parents. And I’ve got to follow through. So we spend the next 43 minutes arguing about where he can eat the Hula Hoops. AT THE TABLE. Whilst I eye up the ball pool and wonder how long it would take for me to suffocate myself in there.

13245338_1338428152850806_7012285094115704254_n(For the record, I’ve decided not long, because there are so many balls, it would probably only take a couple of well-rounded toddlers to sit on me and that would be that.)

‘Will someone just enjoy the soft play, PLEASE?’

Meanwhile, Godivy is having issues that only she understands. And asks if we can go home.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve paid a tenner to get in here and we’ve got another 30 minutes on the meter. So we’re staying and we’re going to get our miserable money’s worth. OK?’

Can we go to Pizza Express and have dough balls instead?‘ she asks.

It’s frigging 10.33 AM.


In the end there is no salvaging anything.

I ask Godivy if she can look after her brother on the slide. She tells me she can’t because she needs a bit of me-time. Excuse me? Isn’t that supposed to by MY line?

But anyway, her brother isn’t on the slide, so that’s good. No, he’s walking around in someone else’s welly boots. Chanting, ‘cwisps, cwisps, cwisps.’

So I remove the welly boots, ruin his life and we leave in a blaze of glory-less-ness.

And head to Pizza Express. To spread more joy.

Unfortunately, Pizza Express does not open until 11.30 AM. But at least my kids reacted really reasonably to that news [insert gun emojis here]. More over on Facebook and Instagram.

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