This is a tale of Craft Fair Woe. It's longwinded. Grab a cuppa...or something stronger. Today I became that figure of pity that you see in the motions of meltdown ... the one you view from a distance secretly thanking your lucky stars, god, goddess, idols, false idols ... that it is not happening to you. Today I wished to step outside of my body and run ... not screaming however ... just run like a thief in the night lest anyone see me trying to make a swift getaway to somewhere like, hm, the Amazon Jungle or the Mongolian Steppes or even just an outer suburb of Launceston .... just anywhere but Deloraine Craft Fair. Let's be clear. It wasn't that I had been awake since 4am. It wasn't that my date with the tax accountant was last minute shifted to a location across town. It wasn't the wee gasbagger who chatted all the way from Lonnie to Deloraine without drawing breath. It wasn't hauling my double pram out of the boot and almost having a hernia. It wasn't the loading of the tribe in aforementioned pram. It wasn't the pushing of the aforementioned pram whilst holding one unsettle-able enfant and continuing aforementioned chat with wee gasbagger. We got to the first pavillion. We had been out of the car for 15mins. The small had got an icecream and I, a milkshake. Things were even looking up when I spied some items that would make perfect Xmas presents ... made of wood and wire ... the gasbagger even chose them herself and was happy to wait in line to pay for them whilst I juggled the unsettle-able to get at my purse.
No - the slow motion part happened now. I just heard the gasbagging turn to distress. The slow motion of your small moving toward you saying 'I want my Mama', wire and wood thingies still clutched in tiny hand. Realising that amidst a whole lot of people your small is dripping blood from her face. Trying to comfort small and search with fruitless accuracy for something to stop the blood with babe in one hand and the other desperately trying to calm one distressed wee girl.
Enter my Clark Kent. One lovely woman who asked so politely if the baby would mind if she held him whilst I attended to my other small. I practically thrusted the baby at her. Whilst continuing to rummage in the bottom of the aforementioned pram for ... a baby singlet ... yes that will mop chin blood, no probs. Mop blood ... see gash ... the wire and wood thingies must have flipped and the wire so perfect had carved out a deep path... First Aid tent required. Small now screaming. I can only say I believe in the kindness of strangers. As my Superwoman helped me get the baby back in the pram, with his (thankfully) smiling brother...which she then pushed to the nearby office so I could carry and calm the girl while we waited for St John's crew.
My girl is made of the good stuff. Once we were there she regained her composure. The gasbagging resumed around the time the boys started crying in blistering stereo. She proceeded to tell the first aid crew that she was much braver than the babies. That she wanted to be a doctor when she was bigger (News to me ... but ace!). Bandaid in place to cover stitch needing wound, it is somewhat hard to answer questions for the first aid incident form as your boys are crescendo-ing into the baby equivalent of the 1812 overture, whilst all present in the craft fair office are informing you that they must indeed be hungry. Exit office to find nearest shady, semi-private tree to feed smalls. Load pram back up with wee gasbagger back in form and perched on the front. Go back to purchase wire and wood thingies whilst previous onlookers enquire as to outcome of muppet show that, judging by the amount of enquiries, was witnessed by 12, 008 people. Do a quick lap of pavillion to justify the whole trip before starting trip back. Head to food pavillion in vain attempt to get some sort of food for yourself as you realise that now it's 3pm ... the last time you ate was breakfast at 6.30am. One baby opens his lungs, the 12, 008 previous witnesses all look in the direction of the stupid woman with the twin pram and the maimed toddler perched on the front. Grab wildly at various food products and head, head-down to the carpark. Reload tribe into the car. Close doors to block out screaming. Load pram ... can't get it to fit in the boot like before. Pull shoulder muscle in the process, so just put all my weight on the boot door and jam it in. Ring husband and tell him to meet us at emergency for some wound gluing date action. Drive the 25mins back into town with both 'they always go straight to sleep when we're driving' babies screaming blue murder and maimed gasbagger joining in the action because I can't 'make them stop'. Turn up radio. Gasbagger and youngest baby give up and go to sleep. Middle 'he is such a cruisy, patient wee guy' baby continues with purchase. Arrive at hospital. Get out settle crying wee bairn on the roadside, never happier than when you see your man stridng toward you.
Enter emergency. Start wait. Babies require feeding. Go seeking suitable spot. Get to hospital foyer. Both babes screaming. Start feeding one... other tops the pops. Again, another vision of kindness appears amidst the 'I'm not really looking' onlookers and collects the screamer and has him smiling in one minute flat until I can finish with his brother. Bless you. Return to emergency. Hand over babes to husband to take home. Commence 2 hour wait for wound glue, reading signs about recent gastro outbreaks and telling the now all singing and dancing happy-go-lucky small to dodge blood spots on the ground. Just when I thought I had lost all will to live, and considered high tailing it and letting the girl live with a character building scar, our name was called and we were in and out in about 4.5minutes. ACE.
Told you it was long. Sometimes it's good to get things off your chest. Sometimes it's good to share the fun times. Enjoy!
and in true The Best Nest style ... it had man hair and horse hair and mattress stuffing! Bonus!
