Obvs our holidays started with a proper full on cluster f**k. Not much beats going to check in online and finding the five year old’s passport has expired. **cue much weeping, emotional pooing and desperate clawing back of deposits**
We were meant to be going with my parents to Poland for two weeks of beach, lakes, cheap beer and sunshine.
Not any more.
Here’s what this disaster has taught me:
1) My husband is extremely understanding and kind and good-humoured in the face of my vast and far-reaching incompetence.
2) My parents are incredibly kind, adaptable and damn good in a crisis
3) People are immensely kind and generous: a family friend lent us his holiday home in Cornwall because he thought the balls up was such a hoot.
4) I am not the only one. Thank you to the awesome Sisterhood of the internet who have been in touch to tell me of their near-misses, holiday disasters and to reassure me it’s either raining where they’re on holiday/far too hot. You rock.
5) My kids couldn’t give two shits where they holiday.
This last one is the absolute best lesson. Our kids were vaguely aware that we might’ve been going on a plane (‘Will we get ill when we fly over GERMany Mummy?’) but didn’t bat an eyelid when we hauled ass down to Cornwall. William still thinks he’s abroad and swears the food ‘tastes funny in this country’ and that once again validates my decision to raise children in Norfolk where anything south of Thetford is foreign.
Our two are as happy as clams to be digging holes in the sand, eating two ice creams a day and tootling around museums. We were discussing time machines earlier and William said, if he could relive any day of his life, he’d go back to Monday when we all went to a castle. In the pissing rain.
And so now I know:
-My husband is bloody lovely.
-My parents must really love me.
-My kids don’t care where they holiday, as long as we’re all together.