I thought I would treat my son today so suggested we go to the cinema. We did nothing yesterday, bar go to Church, and that really, cannot be called a 'treat'. I've been sending message after text message to my brother, who I knew had his kids this weekend and well, some ideas I had, like a May Day celebration, maypoles and morris dancing down at Battersea Park, got canned due to no response.
My son asked if he could bring the dragon I got for him with a Happy Meal last week then asked if I would take him so he could get another. Why not, I thought, saves me cooking lunch.
At the Golden Arches, he duly got his toy and off we went to the local picture house to watch How To Train Your Dragon. I weep at the price of a cinema ticket, especially for a 3D film, a treat these days a gold plated Treat if ever a treat was had.
Great film! A young boy called Hiccup is desperate to prove to his Viking dad that he can slay dragons with the best of them given half the chance but his dad doesn't think so. Then one night, unseen by the clan he hits the most elusive, dangerous dragon of them all, the Night Fury. Heading out the next day to find the dragon and bring back its heart, he instead befriends it and thus begins a friendship that will alter both their worlds. Like I said, brilliant!
We leave, having seen a couple of friends we'll catch up with outside, and my son realises he's lost the wings of one of his Happy Meal dragons. I tell him I'll go back into the auditorium to find it, but nope, he promptly throws both toys into the bin.
I cannot tell my fury, so contained that smoke was coming out of my ears and out through my nostrils. He began to cry, I didn't want to hear any of it. We see our friends and instead of excited buzzing about the film, he's hiding behind my leg.
Fury, such as I was feeling, always has a history and because I don't often write about my son, you won't know any of it, but I held my anger in silence on that bus journey back until we were in the safe confines of our home where I meted out my punishment.
Later, to lighten the atmosphere I said to him:
"So, how are you going to train your dragon?"
"I don't have a dragon mummy."
"Yes you do. Me!"
He didn't understand but when I told him we used to call school battleaxes 'old dragons' when I was younger he smiled.
"You're not a dragon mummy, you're beautiful!"
Peace was shortlived. I burped out some fire when he dropped a cake wrapper on the floor, centimetres from a dustbin.
I do take some responsibility for that. A flat as messy as ours, well, what do I expect...
Parenting ey...laugh a minute, innit?