The Baby Experiment.

I say 'baby', actually, Sam is the 7 year old son of my cousin Lizzie; my Godson. I decided that it was about time that my Godmotherly duties ran to more than simply sending an overload of inappropriate birthday presents a month or two late and invited Lizzie to send Sam up for half term. It seemed like such a good idea. A few days of just the two of us prancing about London, taking in the sights, getting to know each other better whilst taking tea and cakes at terrace cafes and enjoying world class attractions such as the historic Tower of London.
I am in for a rude awakening then, when Sam chooses the Zoo and the London Dungeon as his tourist traps of choice, and he doesn't really like tea. I reflect that since I haven't been to the Zoo for a decade or so, it might actually be quite fun, and as I look about on the Internet for information about the animals and the breeding programs the Zoological Society London is involved in, I begin to get rather excited about our trip. We both have an early night and I get up really early to prepare a picnic for our lunch since my wallet definitely won't feel up to forking out (ghastly pun absolutely intended (!)) for food at the extortionately priced restaurants at the Zoo. As we run to catch the bus, I am feeling extremely smug, Sam is really excited and the sun is already blazing, I think it's going to be a marvellous day. A while later however, I am feeling considerably less smug as I have decided that walking to the Zoo from the station is a better idea than trying to find a bus but it takes absolutely ages and both of us are hot and tired before we even get there. The size of the queue does even less to impress me. We wait for ages and ages, I can't understand why selling a ticket seems to take 20 minutes per customer, how hard can it be? Really? Punch in number of customers, tell customer price, print ticket, take money, give customer tickets. Sam starts to get sulky and annoyed and I am jealous of the people behind us in the queue because their little boy who can only be about two years old is behaving like an angel; he develops a curious fascination with the crocs on my feet which I find most endearing. The ginger angel's mother and I share a brief conversation about the irritating nature of the queue before finally, Sam and I reach the ticket counter. Now I discover what takes so long. First, we have to be informed that included in the ticket price is a "voluntary contribution" to the Zoological Society London, and asked if we are happy to pay it. We are. Then we are shown the extortionately priced souvenir guide to the zoo, do we want one? We don't, but we buy one anyway so that Sam has something to show all of his friends. Finally we are told how much it is going to cost and asked if this is ok. It isn't, but as if I have come this far, only to say no and go back home! We enter the zoo. Sam won't make up his mind whether he wants to see the aquarium or the reptile house first. That annoys me. He doesn't seem to understand that we have only come here because he wanted to... We decide on the reptile house and Sam seems to perk up a bit. I find the collection a little disappointing if I am to be honest, I expected giant snakes and general weirdness, but most of the creatures appear to be in hiding and Sam insists on taking photos of all of the tanks, which I would find less irritating if he were actually interested in what he is looking at, or making an effort to take a decent picture, but I don't suppose the reptile house is really the place for photography lessons so I let it go and decided to look at the frogs. The frogs are cool. They have tiny bright blue poison dart frogs, little green tree frogs and these astonishing yellow things the size of a thumb nail. I should be expecting this by now, but Sam seems more interested in the incredibly dull turtles...
I wish I could say that the day looked set to improve, but I discover that the rolls I had so proudly prepared are in fact growing mould, and in any case, Sam will only eat the cucumber, the climbing frame is more interesting than feeding llamas and goats apparently and the monkeys are far too much work since they require actually looking for as they hide in their tree park. I am really tired and I want to go home. I make a last ditch attempt to chivvy Sam into appreciating the tiger and the hippo and failing miserably, I decide that even if he wants to stay in the tree house, I want to go home. On the way out, I force Sam to come into the butterfly house and a nice woman shows him some MASSIVE moths which I think are really excellent. Sam is only interested when a red and black butterfly sits on his head and the other visitors take pictures of it. After a spat in the souvenir shop over the suitability of crappy plastic animal heads on sticks, I decide that I have absolutely had enough and it suddenly occurs to me that Sam is probably tired, and instead of telling me like a sensible grown-up person, he is sulking and being difficult. Lovely. We get on the bus and head for the station, I am groaning inwardly because I know that I still have to cook his tea. Last night's tea was a disaster; wanting to get it exactly right, I quizzed the child endlessly over what he wanted and how precisely he wanted his carrots, only to have him say he didn't like it. Determined not to make the same mistake, I tell Sam we are having fish and potato waffles and he seems happier.
It's quite late when we get back so I make Sam have a drink while I put the tea on and then he plays on his DS until we eat. To be fair, he does manage it all, which is better than last night. I finally pack him off to bed and breathe a sigh of relief as I sit watching rubbish on TV.
Our next epic trip is to the London Eye. I have never been to the Eye and am rather excited about it. A huge Ferris wheel type affair, with pods that hold up to 25 people, the Eye sits on the banks of the river Thames, affording excellent views of the Houses of Parliament. Sam has been going on about how much he wants to see Big Ben so I have that smug feeling again, thinking that this will surely be the thing he enjoys the most. It is beyond belief, I think when we are in our pod, that Sam is more interested in rolling around on the floor of the pod taking pictures of the inner workings of the Eye than he is in the Houses of Parliament. I decide to let him get on with it and sit down next to a Japanese woman to enjoy the view. I think to myself that it is weird and amusing that I understand the conversation she is having with her kids over the hamburgers they want for lunch, but she doesn't know that I understand it. I suddenly feel very nostalgic and toy with the idea of talking to her, but I remember how much it annoyed me when Japanese people interrupted my life to practise their English on me, so I keep my mouth shut and eavesdrop instead. The ride comes to an end and I take Sam into the souvenir shop where we have the most bizarre argument in history. After looking around at various souvenirs which are largely unsuitable either because he has 6 million cuddly toys already or because they are too old for him or a stupid colour, I come across some nice keyrings which are personalised with a little Eye icon on them. Perfect I think, but Sam can't decide if he wants to buy one or not. We take another turn around the tiny, overheated shop while he thinks about it. Several suggestions later Sam has turned down everything good, including a very fine Eye T-shirt and I ask him if he wants the keyring or not. He says he doesn't, so I tell him that we will leave and go for some lunch. Sam starts crying. I am absolutely baffled by this and demand he tells me what the matter is. Apparently, he hadn't realised that if he said no to the keyring, he would have to leave the shop. I am so staggered by the utter lack of logic in his response that I actually gape at him for several minutes before pointing out the obvious and asking him one more time if he wants the keyring. We buy the keyring.
I agree to take him to a fast food establishment for his lunch and we walk over the bridge so he can look at Big Ben (I don't point out that the bell is Big Ben, not the clock tower) on the way. We've decided somewhere along the way, that we want to see Coraline, this film about a small girl who finds a secret passage to a parallel world in her house. We check the film times and decide that we will see the film first and go to lunch later. The film is a sucess although later when I ask Sam what he has done with his keyring I am not happy to learn that he doesn't know where it is and drag him back to the cinema to see if we can find it. The staff don't have it but give us permission to go back to the loos and look for it. I am glad it is there, because I would have been very annoyed indeed if he had lost it. We have time before I think we need to go home and I ask Sam if he would like to go to the Dungeon today instead of tomorrow and he says he would.
We trawl to the other side of the city; the journey is less than inspiring especially given that I get us out at Bank instead of London Bridge and it is much further to walk than I thought. The queue is huge, the staff tell us one hour. I curl my lip and ask Sam if he is absolutely sure he wants to wait. He is. I ask him several more times but he doesn't change his mind. While we are in the outside waity bit, that's ok, we get given free mousse by some people promoting a new dessert and enjoy the sunshine. I lose a flower off my croc though and I am not pleased about that. It is when we get to the inside waity bit that things become less impressive; there is no air conditioning and nowhere to sit but as I look past the people before us into the attraction, I do think it looks quite good, and Sam and I enjoy another bizarre conversation about things in London being different to Torquay. We get past the guard at the gate and are summarily dragged off to have a souvenir photo taken, I have to stand in stocks while Sam holds a fake axe which he thinks is hilarious.
The ticket man asks Sam if he is scared, Sam says he isn't, but I am so the man tells Sam he has to look after me. We wait in another line to go into the first section and the ambience is pleasingly medieval plague ridden town-esque. I talk to Sam about medieval life and the plague and the consequences of bad hygiene. Somehow we get onto social justice and the governments of certain poverty-stricken nations taking all the food meant for aid. He seems quite interested but I am certain that 99% of it is going over his head. We get on to rats and how they carried the plague and finally we are herded into a cave type bit where we are promised the labyrinth of groaning spirits or something I am getting quite excited and then, Sam starts crying and saying he is scared. Naturally I am rather annoyed but do my best not to tell him he's being stupid. I point out that he isn't scared of CSI or Doctor Who and that this isn't real either. He agrees but says he's scared now and I get the chap dressed as the bringer out of the dead to take us on to the next bit. Having seemed to calm down, Sam actually starts screaming and I have to really bite my tongue not to shout at him. He insists he wants to go home and refuses to stay so I have to embarrass myself by asking bringer out of the dead guy to get us out. I am absolutely furious and do not speak to Sam all the way home and I send him to his room. I would not have been quite so annoyed had he not insisted that he wanted to wait in the queue. I also think that some respite from the sun will help both of our moods. I make him some tea and reflect that I am simply not cut out for motherhood and fight the urge to call his grandmother and have her drive up to collect him a day early. I decide that we will definitely not be going to the Science Museum the following day but that I will treat him to pizza and popcorn while we watch the Britain's Got Talent final; this seems to be a good option and both of us calm down.
We spend the most of the next day at the park before we go shopping for pizza and popcorn and have weird kid conversations about the nature of buses and the town centre; I feel like I have walked into a parallel universe where absolutely nothing makes sense.
As well as the discovery of my maternal non-instincts, I have learned several things these past few days. Kids don't make sense. At all. Logic defies them. When you have one, you become a member of an elite club called Other Mums. Women you've never seen before become your best friend at the park because your kid is playing with theirs. Men in their thirties stand up for you on the tube because they are shamed when their neighbour gets up to let the kid sit down. Kids can't reach the handles in the train so almost everytime we get on one someone lets us sit down. I now understand why parents let their kids eat fast food; it's really so simple that I don't know why I never realised it before, after you've spent the day racing around a zoo or a town or anywhere, the last thing you want to have to do is cook proper food, so you settle for junk, knowing that at least they will like it and at least they are eating something... terrible.. but it only took two days of trying to cook proper food for Sam to work this out. Kids are weird and having one in your house all the time is stressful.