Apparently telling the snotty old rascal to bugger off is not PC these days, so how do you deal with the kid being a twat in the soft ball pit?
I found myself asking this very question today when Maxamillian, not his real name but coulda/shoulda been, started to call my boy names and then to push and shove him. As is traditional, and partly explains his behaviour, Maxi’s mum was totally ignoring him and his behaviour and was busy tapping away on her phone and breezing through the Daily Mail.
Under normal circumstances there is always a bit of banter in the ball pit and you leave your kid to cope with it. If it carries on the mum/dad/nanny would just tell the kid to behave itself and we would shrug and exchange sympathetic ‘can’t they be a pain in the arse’ glances. This was not going to work in this instance. This boy was relentlessly mean.
To my delight my evil mind, fuelled by a plate of leftover fish fingers, conjured up a delightful plan of revenge. To simply get your arse into the soft play arena and have THE MOST FUN YOU HAVE EVER HAD WITH YOUR SON EVER EVER IN YOUR LIFE – albeit, and critically, without including brat face in the game.
I would normally strongly disapprove of such a flagrant and vulgar display of active, involved parenting but in this instance it worked a trick. By the time I’d swung my boy off the monkey bars, zip-wired him into oblivion and was preparing to push him through the soft play mangle for the nineteenth time, twat was fit to burst.
He was furious to be excluded but hitting me was not going to change my mind. My boy was laughing soo much he couldn’t give a toss what this kid was moaning about. His attempt to draw his own mother into the pit was met with an initial look of incomprehension and swirly followed with horror. And then in a flash of her pashmina they were gone.
Two useful lessons learnt, I think.
No 1 -No one wants to play with a twat.
No 2- I don’t fit through the soft play mangle