I’m typing this as I sit outside our palatial lodge overlooking
vast acres of beautiful woodland. I’m drinking my tea and drinking in nature; in the distance I can hear the gentle birdsong of something lesser spotted and the harmonious squawking of a breed that’s way too common: a herd of OPK, or as it’s more commonly known, “other people’s kids”.
I’m at Centerparcs, where ‘OPK’ obviously exist in huge numbers (what with it being a family holiday kinda place) and over the last few days I’ve been pondering life’s big questions:
“Why don’t we ride bikes at home?” Answer: ‘cos we live in London with mentalist drivers rather than in a car-free woodland.
“Why is my right trainer much heavier than my left?” Answer: ‘cos the three year old has been shiftily sifting sand into it during our jaunt to the pretend beach.And: “Is it ever ok to tell off other people’s kids?” Answer: hmm, I’ll get back to you.
Now, I try to be one of those chilled parents who aren’t busy-bodies or sticklers for rules but I couldn’t help noticing that the girl who’d just entered was already a willowy 5’5” and clearly towered over the small cardboard man at the entrance declaring, “If you’re shorter than me you can come in to play”. In fact, if the cardboard official was sporting some well stacked Cuban heels, she’d still dwarf him; I reckon she was easily 12.
Now, I’ve been the recipient of enough soggy paper spit balls thwacking the back of my neck at school to know it’s not the nicest of experiences. It’s bad enough when it happens in double modular science but even worse when you’re relaxing upside-down over a padded yellow slide on an Easter family break.
So, in conclusion I think its best not to try to discipline offspring that don’t belong to you. Plus, to be honest, why would I want to shout at other people’s kids when I’m so good at shouting at my own?
written based on Sara Cox,
vast acres of beautiful woodland. I’m drinking my tea and drinking in nature; in the distance I can hear the gentle birdsong of something lesser spotted and the harmonious squawking of a breed that’s way too common: a herd of OPK, or as it’s more commonly known, “other people’s kids”.
I’m at Centerparcs, where ‘OPK’ obviously exist in huge numbers (what with it being a family holiday kinda place) and over the last few days I’ve been pondering life’s big questions:
“Why don’t we ride bikes at home?” Answer: ‘cos we live in London with mentalist drivers rather than in a car-free woodland.
“Why is my right trainer much heavier than my left?” Answer: ‘cos the three year old has been shiftily sifting sand into it during our jaunt to the pretend beach.And: “Is it ever ok to tell off other people’s kids?” Answer: hmm, I’ll get back to you.
Now, I try to be one of those chilled parents who aren’t busy-bodies or sticklers for rules but I couldn’t help noticing that the girl who’d just entered was already a willowy 5’5” and clearly towered over the small cardboard man at the entrance declaring, “If you’re shorter than me you can come in to play”. In fact, if the cardboard official was sporting some well stacked Cuban heels, she’d still dwarf him; I reckon she was easily 12.Now, I’ve been the recipient of enough soggy paper spit balls thwacking the back of my neck at school to know it’s not the nicest of experiences. It’s bad enough when it happens in double modular science but even worse when you’re relaxing upside-down over a padded yellow slide on an Easter family break.
So, in conclusion I think its best not to try to discipline offspring that don’t belong to you. Plus, to be honest, why would I want to shout at other people’s kids when I’m so good at shouting at my own?
written based on Sara Cox,
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