Going on holiday is rubbish and I hate it. I mean…
I love being on holiday, but I hate going there. As holidays approach I have this mix of excitement and dread. I see beach-themed possessions being piled somewhere nearish our front door and wonder if physics will be kind to us and bend a few rules allowing everything to fit in the car.
We usually plan to leave early, which seems reasonable the night before when the kids are asleep, our luggage is packed, and the building we live in resembles a house. But, when the day comes something goes horribly wrong. The boys, pumped with adrenaline, destroy anything in their path including my emotions, dignity and self-control. What was meant to take 15 minutes becomes a task so big that I give serious consideration to cancelling the holiday completely – which I’d probably do if I could find a phone, computer, my wife…anything.
It takes us at least five attempts to leave the house. If we get away from the street with all our children, our phones and a wallet between us, I consider us to be winning. I usually look up directions before we leave but turn on Google Maps (to save on arguments). Its estimated time of arrival mocks us with how long it would take if we had no kids. In reality we can usually double any google estimates.
As soon as we arrive, the fun starts and almost everything is forgotten. The screaming, the heavy lifting, and the stress all seem to be melting away. That is, until bedtime. Despite our best efforts to run the boys ragged upon arrival, bedtime always seems to come too early for the boys. After a series of meltdowns over bed preference, it usually all ends with a child telling me they don’t like this holiday and they want to go home…
Day one is a write off. The rest of the week will be awesome and I’m sure the holiday will be redeemed. I love holidays. But getting here is absolutely rubbish.
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