Donegal mum Maria Rushe makes a new discovery of the joy of soft play.
Once upon a time, the words “Let’s meet at soft play” instiled a sense of dread in me.
I hated it.
Gasp… yes I just typed that out loud… HATED it.
All of it; The noise. The crowd. The mesh and net fences which eat little people into pits of puff. The sensory overload. Crying, screaming… Yip. Hated it all.
I know that we Mammies are supposed to all LOVE soft play and such, but not me.
But until the girls were a certain size, the joy of having to drag my adult arse through multicoloured jungle jaws into forests of foam to supervise or save a wobbler or toddler from the pits of hell…
But being the mother of the fecking year that I sometimes am, I put MY dislike of it aside and brought them, sometimes. But unless I absolutely HAD to, I admit I avoided it. I was clever actually. I offered it as a fun activity for them to do with Daddy.
Pahahahah! Take that Daddy Bear. Off you crawl.
But I must say that once the toddler phase has passed and your little one turns into a more sturdy little Fuman bean, (human being) soft play can be JOY.
JOY I tell you.
For now, at the grand age of four-year-bold, my youngest can hold her own and happily throws her shoes at me as she runs in… in some cases never to be seen again, until hometime. Or until the thirst takes over and the rosy red panting leads her to come running for water…
I can now bring my laptop WITH me and if I position my adult arse correctly, I can write, watch them AND drink a coffee all at once.
Getting them OUT of the place is often a challenge, but hey. It’s one I’ll take. For they are happy and sweaty and exhausted.
And I’ve had a full hour of coffee.
And I’ve written this…
Thank you Soft Play.
I may now promote you from hell to heaven. (Well, baby steps eh?)