Babes on the beach

The sand undulates, white as snow, silken soft down to a jade green sea. The sun's rays dust the gently rippling waves in diamond shards. The clear sky is a bright turquoise, the blue horizon broken only by the lazy flapping of a pelican scanning the waters for a mid afternoon snack. White yachts bob serenely out at sea and children hunt for shells at the waters edge.

The beach is dotted with royal blue cabanas, each sporting a oiled pair of legs sticking out from beneath the shade, some sleek and brown, others toasting an angry, livid pink. As I recline onto my own padded lounger, sunglasses perched on my nose, an icy cocktail sweating in the heat on the table beside me, I sigh and think: 'This is the life'.

That is in the scant nanosecond of peace afforded to me by my relentless offspring, before one of them arrives by my side, to climb, scratchy and sandy onto my toasting belly, knocking over that well deserved drink in the process. As they drip chill seawater down my back the demands commence.

The twins want 'More, more water' to be fetched from the sea, even though they are both sitting right beside it, while I am happily ensconced halfway up the beach. The bigger boys want me to miraculously rid the sea of all of its salt, as this makes their eyes sting, and check each wave for an approaching stingray. The warning signs telling us to do the stingray shuffle in order to avoid injury, having left them paranoid about all marine life.

A beach holiday with the boys just isn't the same as those far off breaks we had a deux. While husband and I attempt to relax and enjoy they idyllic surroundings, the children seem determined to thwart our plans. If they aren't asking for endless cups of juice they are complaining that it's too hot. You just can't win.

I am beginning to wonder how old children have to be before you don't feel as if you need another holiday the moment you hop off the plane on the way home from your last one.

The pursuit of nothing

I can see the irony in the biggest treat offered to me on Mother's Day being some time away from my children, but all parents know that the most precious prize is a few moments to yourself. From the moment your baby is born you are made aware of the fact that you are now on call 24/7. If you dare to attempt to sneak off for an indulgent cup of coffee, sandwich or 40 winks, your newborn will instantly pick up on this transgression and sound out a wailing, screeching alarm.

It is a bit like living in a prison camp, as you are only left to your own devices when you are working. It is a strange phenomenon, but babies will peacefully nap while you wash bottles, do the ironing or puree them some lunch, but the moment you crack open the chocolate digestives and the latest copy of Grazia all hell breaks loose. It's the same with shopping, traipse around Tesco and they will sleep like the dead, attempt to try on a new top in H&M and they spring awake, alert as a meerkat and noisy as a banshee.

As the name of this blog has probably given away I have four children, and I spend vast portions of my day trying to get away from them. It's not that I don't love them, it's just that they are so very relentless in their pursuit of my attention. To be fair to the older boys they do have the consideration to go to school, which at least leaves me the inside of the day to contemplate my navel in peace, but the younger ones are still at home, all day, every day.

I do have a nanny, which gives me much needed respite, but sadly I have to waste some of that potential me time will less pleasurable pursuits like working and chores. If I do venture away from my keyboard the twins will instantly descend upon me with yells of 'Mummy, mummy', which is cute for about 30 seconds before they smoothly segue into screaming demands for mummy to 'Dit down', get 'More app juice', find a missing 'Ball, ball', or carry out a messy 'Nappy change'.

I soon turn tail and remove myself back to the relative peace of my office. I tell you I don't know how full time mums do it. I would have to have a specially built sound proof, child proof box built into which I could retire and recharge, like a maternal flotation tank, lest I implode with the incessant stream of demands and chatter.

I would feel bad, if I didn't know that I am not alone in this ruthless pursuit of doing nothing. When my husband is at home at the weekend he is an angel with the children, but he also spends many hours attempting to slope off and spend some quality time with his iPad. I don't blame him, he has spent a week earning a crust and now all his free time is eaten up by caring for our tiny tyrants.

If he isn't sweeping up discarded breakfast cereal, he is filling up endless cups of juice, removing and replacing socks on the whim of the twins, fixing up the varying different swings that suit all our different ages of children, continuing the unending task of loading and unloading the dishwasher, making one of the million meals our children seem to consume every day. I can hardly begrudge him a quiet moment or two with can of Stella while the kids aren't looking.

I suspect the answer lies in some kind of remote control device for the children. That way when it all gets too much we could simply stab at the pause button, sit down, relax with a glass of wine or two, after which we could press play again and let the games recommence - or not.