Chris' duckpond adventure

I'm currently working on a series of family recollections for a scrapbook for my mother, who recently turned 85. This is one of them.

It was just a few days before Christmas 1995. The boys were seven and Andrea was about to turn three. My mother and father had arrived from Victoria the day before and I wanted to show them a local beauty spot. I also needed to pick up the ham and turkey we’d ordered from our local butcher, and since the kids had gone slightly feral, I thought I could kill three birds with the one stone.

Everyone piled into the Tarago and we drove to the nearby Punchbowl Reserve. As its name suggests, it is a shallow bowl-like depression and it has been beautifully landscaped. It is very popular with families.

There is a glorious rhododendron garden, sweeping lawn, a duck pond, barbeque and picnic facilities and a recently refurbished play area. I anticipated we would take a pleasant stroll over the lawn to see the ducks, planning to finish up at the playground and then back home via the butchers.

Easy.

Or Not

Everything was quite straightforward until we reached the duck pond, which is half way across the reserve. We didn’t even have a chance to point out the ducks, let alone feed them, when Chris ventured one step too close to the edge and slithered right in.

The pond isn’t excessively deep – perhaps waist deep – IF he’d not floundered around. But by the time I hauled him out, he was completely soaked up to his neck and covered in mud and pondweed.

Thankfully the weather was fairly mild and we stripped him off at the water’s edge but the issue remained; what could he wear back to the car?

I had Nick give him his woollen jumper and Andrea gave up her hoodie for the cause. The jumper was a straight swap since the boys were of a size, but the only thing I could do with the hoodie was tie it around his waist like a little apron or some kind of native lap-lap (since the hood swung between his knees). Modesty was satisfied – sort of – but he looked quite bizarre.

That sorted, it was time to bundle up the wet clothes and get home asap.

But Nick had become bored and decided to explore the picnic area while we were occupied with Chris. The next thing I knew was that he was doing a pretty good mountain goat impression – leaping from one picnic bench up onto the table, down again and over to the next bench. Easy.

Until he missed - and barked his shin against one of the benches.

Now all of our attention was on Nick who, not surprisingly, was yowling in pain.

So then we realised that Chris had wandered off in the direction of the playground. He was making a beeline for the slide and we were too far back to stop him.

You can imagine the looks he was getting from the other children as he climbed bare-arsed up the ladder and lowered himself onto the top of the slide.

I should point out here that this newly refurbished playground had some quite modern features for the time, such as rubberised matting under the swings – and a ROLLER slide.

We could only look on in horror as he bumped down over the cold metal rollers on his bare bottom.

Frankly, it was some kind of miracle that his bits weren’t pinched between the rollers. I suspect he didn’t enjoy the experience, since he made no attempt to go back up.

We finally hustled him and the injured Nick back to the car (where this photo was taken) and agreed that we should get home as quickly as possible, what with Chris half naked and Nick moaning and groaning.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore.

Me from the drivers seat: All right, we know.

Nick in the back seat: It's sore, It's sore (and so on)

Me trying to keep calm: All right, keep quiet about it.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore ( etc)

Andrea in the middle row: Mum, he's not keeping quiet about it.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore.

Andrea (with some ire ) We know it's sore. Now shut up.

Which you have to admit is pretty funny coming from someone who's not quite three years old.

It's just as well we didn't have far to drive.