It is that time of the year when you have the looming prospect of the summer large before you, and absolutely no immediate plans of possible fruition involving you, the hubby and the child, aboard an aircraft, a train or even damn it, in the car on a long road trip to exotic places, where you can wash the grime accumulated by the year’s stress off. Havent been on a holiday for five years. Since the brat was a foetus. Ever since, we’ve been on holidays which normally involve an entire jamboree of family and two to three carloads of people, which is great fun, but sometimes you yearn not to be woken up at six am because bright and sparkly people in the group want to hotfoot it around dead and ruined forts. One would like to down one’s Breezers without the disapproving gaze and clacking tongue of the one who must not be named. One would like to chill in a pair of shorts and a vest on the beach, without needing to be labelled a crimson, scarlet and purple woman just because one has dared to expose an ankle. In simple language, one would want to be on a holiday with only husband and child for company.
But then the negatives of such a holiday are manifold. For one, there will be no other children around. Which means one will be sole caretaker and entertainment provider to the brat. Which means additionally, that one will actually not be able to down any of them Breezers given that at least one of the party needs to be sober and sane to run around in the circles that is the lot of the person assigned to watch over the mini man. That also means one will be dead to the world and snoring with exhaustion before the husband is done with his rounds of drinks, and therefore in no state of being for any romancing. Which also means that the brat will be sleeping in with us again in the hotel room, and thus prone to wakening at the most inconvenient moments when the bedsheets have been discarded along with the clothes in the hope that gentle snores signal deep sleep. Which also means that, if god forbid, a fever or a bout of food poisoning strikes, I am the only whole and soul left to do the mopping up of vomit from every available surface, while the husband sulks at the prospect of a ruined holiday at the bar. No, no, he’s not the lush this post is making him out to be.
Therefore one is in a right quandary. Dare one suggest an escapade just with the three of us, or do the right honourable thing and invite the legion to join in? Or should one just sulk at home while friends insist on filling you in with the infuriarating details of how they had such a wonderful time on their trip with their infuriatingly well behaved children who sleep on dot, and dont throw tantrums and dont need a second by second supervision.
Ugggghhhh. I need a holiday right now from everyone. Including me.