Honest Motherhood: Two scoops of vanilla and a sprinkle of Cornwall

“MUMMY COME WITH ME TO THE ROCK POOL! I WANT TO GO TO THE ROCK POOL!! MUMMY!!”.
It is day four of our Cornwall holiday. We arrived on Friday at around 10am, having set off at the wise and glorious hour of 5:15am. I can happily report a smooth and tantrum-free journey accompanied by a diverse array of tunes from the Hamilton soundtrack to the delightful Wu Tang Clan. Maia was surprisingly awake for the duration, napping only briefly towards the end and asking “ARE WE IN CORNWALL?” only twelve times. 
It’s been an appropriately restful few days so far, with a seemingly constant consumption of food, time well spent on the beach lying and running around, my parents engrossed in newspapers and sudoku puzzles and my boyfriend and I braving the not-so-tropical British seas. I would describe the ocean experience as “invigorating”, one of those “I FEEL SO ALIVE” moments, though I did shiver for the rest of the day post-dip. (We did it all over again the following day, spontaneously ripping our clothes off and gallivanting in. Underwear was kept on. I am a responsible parent after all.) 
As well as all the deliciously over-priced ice-cream, (which we’ve consumed three days in a row now, I wonder how much two scoops of Vanilla in a sprinkled waffle-cone with a flake, more sprinkles and chocolate sauce will be at the shop/van adjacent to today’s beach of choice) with holidays comes that wonderful feeling of “I’ve no-where to be, at any time…I don’t even know what the time is!”. It’s marvellous.  
We did have the brief hope of a lie-in, the belief that it may be possible to sneak a couple of extra hours in bed. The absolute luxury. Of course this was wishful thinking, confirmed when my darling girl stormed in at 7:30 wanting to play/begin the day/interact with us LOUDLY. The ultimate reminder that holidaying with your children is still, in fact, holidaying with your children. Everyone is a little more relaxed, you’re creating the frame-worthy memories that’ll go up on the kitchen wall one day. But you are still parent, provider-of-care, fountain of energy, love and affection. Sort of. 
An idyllic beach in Cornwall or the magazine aisle in Waitrose Wokingham, I am still the same impatient and easily agitated young mother. 
Browsing a quaint little book shop in St Ives, it was hard to focus when all I could hear was: “NONE OF THESE BOOKS SUIT ME!…Can you help me find a book that suits me?!” A tall order. No Topsy and Tim to be found here. We left after making the collective decision that despite the generous selection of children’s books, there was not one worth committing to financially, nor one that “suited her”. That and the fear she was beginning to irritate the owner. 
After some deliberation, kind Grandma did indeed take the little one to her beloved rock pools, whilst the rest of us lay on towels reading, silently burning after carelessly applying minimal sun protection. Should have lathered up and ventured to that rock pool.
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