Memories: Holidays before the children…
Like all parents, I have a hazy memory of what life was like before the house was invaded by small things with impressive lungs.
The thing that I remember most clearly was holidays. Holidays that didn’t include searching through beachside cafes looking for somewhere that could meet all three of my children’s irrational demands for lunch. Holidays that involved whooping when I found a bar serving sangria for ten pesetas, rather than listening to whoops when we spot a cheap, carousel eagerly collecting 5 Euros from exhausted parents on the sea front.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that I would like to live a life without my three beautiful, noisy, offsprings. But, what I wouldn’t do for a simple holiday in the sun without them.
I am sure Laura knows what I mean.
When I was in my youth, I went on 18-30’s holidays. Dear lord, everything my mother feared I would do, I probably did. None of my three are going anywhere near one of ‘those resorts’ without me and their father firmly in tow. In fact, they can stick with us on our cheap package holidays, or go stay with their Great Aunt in Blackpool. When they get to my age, I will be happy for them to holiday alone.
But back to me.
As I reach the time of life where forty is closer than thirty, it seems my desire to dance all night has deserted me. All I crave now is five to seven days on a beach, a few good novels, a decent glass (or two) of Pinot and maybe a G&T to put myself to bed on. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of light entertainment in the evening, I am becoming quite fond of Bingo, but if not, conversations with the girls and more Pinot will suit me just fine.
I am now ready for the type of holiday my mother wanted me to go on when I was seventeen.
My husband has told me, I can take a holiday alone when I finally hit forty. Four years away. He reckons it will take him that long to work out where I keep the spare loo roll, understand how to occupy the kids on a day to day basis, and manage all their different medications (I have kids who collect chronic illnesses).
I reckon four years will give me enough time to shed the extra four stone that resides in my butt, belly and breasts. Remove the excess facial hair that has been slowly creeping through since I hit thirty. Attack the area known as my bikini line and search out the perfect swimsuit that turns a size 16 into a svelte size ten.
So four years, anyone want to book it into their diary and come with me?