Yesterday, I took my children to the Brighton Show. An institution for as long as I can remember, when I was a kid I would beg to be taken, as it usually fell on the same weekend or close enough to my birthday.
I was a little worried about how they would cope with the heat, the noise and the crowds, but they both did really well.
Except for Isaac and the jumping castle.
Now, to be fair he hasn’t been on a jumping castle before and he wasn’t prepared for it to be so hard to walk around. Nor was I impressed that in the middle of the 2-6yo set jumping, there were two boys who looked to be twelve-ish, jumping around and bowling over the smaller children. It might even have been okay, if they both weren’t very large for their age and completely oblivious to the little ones.
It didn’t take long for Isaac to fall over and start to cry and refuse to walk back to the entrance where I was standing.
So I did what countless other mothers have done before me, I kicked off my shoes and braved the dodgy terrain to go and rescue Isaac. It was all going well until we got to the exit and my ankle dislocated and down we went in a tumble of limbs, sliding down the inflatable ramp.
Isaac thought it was hilarious, but of course, he wasn’t the one wearing a dress and flashing his knickers to the crowd of waiting parents and teenage hanger-ons.
Not my finest moment.
Not at all.