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I’d accepted that the hallowed holiday would no longer be the same once we had children, but quite how different it would be both surprised and distressed me the first time I ventured abroad with kids.
Of course I knew that I would no longer be able to lie prostrate in the sun for 8 hours a day, moving only to turn a page of my book or to sip my cold beer/wine/cocktail. Of course I understood we would not be partying all night down on the beach and sleeping off the hangovers till midday, those things are completely obvious.
But what I did not
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appreciate was that I would not be able to lie in the sun for even one minute without negotiating with both the husband and the small children. That I would not be able to read a single page of my trashy novel without having to look up to check if said child was a) blistering in the sun, b) drowning, c) running for the hills, d) eating a grasshopper, e) licking the stray cat…. you get the idea.
I did not appreciate that the day would have to start, not with leisurely sex at 10am followed by breakfast by the pool, but in the dark at 5am, with a
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screaming child, a shitty nappy, an argument with the hungover husband about who’s turn it was to do the morning shift. Then what would follow was a day of sterilising bottles, putting on a wash, pureeing carrots, thinking about what I would need to make for lunch/supper, trying to plan a day that would incorporate and facilitate nap times and feeding times… basically, the same as at home, but hotter, and much less convenient, because you have only brought three toys with you and there is no internet!
I remember a friend telling me, “when you go
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on holiday with children, it’s not called a holiday, it’s called, going abroad with children!” She is right. When you get back home, faced with piles of sandy laundry, a stinking fridge (because you forgot to chuck the milk), over-tired children who have no concept of the fact that they have even been on holiday and a garden full of dead plants, you will wonder why you bothered.
But then, deep into the winter, you will smile as you remember your sandy toddler screaming with delight as he catches a crab in his bucket, and the squeals of
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happiness from the baby as he splashes in the pool in the afternoon sun, the afternoon sex that you managed to sneak in whilst both children were sleeping, the cheap and delicious local wine you drank whilst watching the shooting stars at night and you will start to plan your next ‘holiday.’
Rebecca Maberly is founder of The Doctor and Daughter’s Guide to Pregnancy
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Becca Maberly - 30 Aug 13
I’d accepted that the hallowed holiday would no longer be the same once we had children, but quite how different it would be both surprised and distressed me the first time I ventured abroad with kids.
Of course I knew that I would no longer be able to lie prostrate in the sun for 8 hours a day, moving only to turn a page of my book or to sip my cold beer/wine/cocktail. Of course I understood we would not be partying all night down on the beach and sleeping off the hangovers till midday, those things are completely obvious.
But what I did not appreciate was that I would not be able to lie in the sun for even one minute without negotiating with both the husband and the small children. That I would not be able to read a single page of my trashy novel without having to look up to check if said child was a) blistering in the sun, b) drowning, c) running for the hills, d) eating a grasshopper, e) licking the stray cat…. you get the idea.
I did not appreciate that the day would have to start, not with leisurely sex at 10am followed by breakfast by the pool, but in the dark at 5am, with a screaming child, a shitty nappy, an argument with the hungover husband about who’s turn it was to do the morning shift. Then what would follow was a day of sterilising bottles, putting on a wash, pureeing carrots, thinking about what I would need to make for lunch/supper, trying to plan a day that would incorporate and facilitate nap times and feeding times… basically, the same as at home, but hotter, and much less convenient, because you have only brought three toys with you and there is no internet!
I remember a friend telling me, “when you go on holiday with children, it’s not called a holiday, it’s called, going abroad with children!” She is right. When you get back home, faced with piles of sandy laundry, a stinking fridge (because you forgot to chuck the milk), over-tired children who have no concept of the fact that they have even been on holiday and a garden full of dead plants, you will wonder why you bothered.
But then, deep into the winter, you will smile as you remember your sandy toddler screaming with delight as he catches a crab in his bucket, and the squeals of happiness from the baby as he splashes in the pool in the afternoon sun, the afternoon sex that you managed to sneak in whilst both children were sleeping, the cheap and delicious local wine you drank whilst watching the shooting stars at night and you will start to plan your next ‘holiday.’
Rebecca Maberly is founder of The Doctor and Daughter’s Guide to Pregnancy
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