I tried the oommmms and let down my hair, or what there is of it. We all did in the garden. It’s good preparation, I told the three kids, for a walk in the forest with our four-ton dog while we let mummy have a lie-in.
Off we walked down a sandy lane, relaxed and adventurous. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I said. And I told them. We’ll pretend to go on a bear hunt, like in their favorite story We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. They all said, “Yeah!” And we were off with greater fervor, the kids jumping and hooting and our dog taking the lead. We walked down the sandy lane and into the depth of the forest and up a sand dune to look for a bear. We dropped down into a meadow and walked through it while singing “Swishy, swashy” like in the book.
Then we came to a big, steep sand dune. And we said, “We can’t go under it, can’t go around it. We’ve got to go up it.”
So we climbed, me carrying the littlest one. Up, up, up the steep, steep, steep slope. To the top, to the top, to the top. We slowed, we slowed, we slowed and then we got there, almost, almost and then, yes, we got to the top.
And we collapsed in the sand to catch our breath.
Then came the murmurs.
“Pick me up.”
Then the final declaration of mutiny.
“I’m not walking any farther!”
With a bit of coaxing and a few promises, I was out $100 to get them to walk down the sand dune, across the meadow, through the forest and down the sandy lane to home at last, where we walked in the side door to the kitchen and they guzzled water and looked longingly at mummy’s breakfast.
Then I thought, where’s the dog?