How’s the holiday? Was it good? I’m asked. Having fun?
It’s an innocent question, from interested friends. As simple to answer as it is to ask, surely? But I have no idea where to start. Good? Bad? A mix of both? It wasn’t in the realms of either. Holidays are for relaxing. After all, sinking one years savings into a week turning red while sleeping on the sand is a Brits’ right. Or so we are told.
The comments and looks of disbelief. You’re travelling alone? With two? Did they think I had magic powers I wonder now? No-one daring to ask the question in their minds… where’s the man (men?) who helped to make these boys? I imagine the stories I could construct for these strangers. Ones which would entitle me to empathy, not judgement and dismay. You choose this life, I imagine they’d say?
As always, the emotional side was much harder than the practical, though that was no doddle either. Loneliness takes on new depths when you’re surrounded by happy families taking selfies and you can’t barricade yourself behind the safety of your own four walls.
In ‘normal’ life, the couples are there of course, but less visible. One parent often out at work or engaged elsewhere. On holiday though, both parents are clearly visible, sharing the care and basking in the glory of their children. I’m well aware it might not feel like that on the inside, but it’s how it feels from the outside. Overhearing the mums, feet up, books in hand, “this is the life” they say. They’re right. They deserve that break, I have no doubt. I don’t begrudge them one second of it. It’s just I feel I deserve it too. We all deserve it.
It’s not just the marriages that look like fun, it’s the couples holidays (with kids of course). Hanging out with women and men. Now there’s a novel thought. I miss male company. I’m missing a key ingredient to join in on one of those groups though, and the supermarkets are all sold out indefinitely.
There were moments of fun. Or they should have been. Jumping the waves, watching my boys splash and play, throwing them in the air to land with delight in the pool, going on a slide at the water park, having cuddles with both boys. Instead, the moments bounced off my joy-proof skin, protected by a strong coating of anxiety. They became just moments. Neither good, nor bad. Just there.
There were odd moments of quiet. When the baby slept and the five year old was entertained. I tried to wrap myself in those moments. Hoping they’d allow me some release from the anxiety and I’d remember how to just enjoy our time together.
Then there were the hard times.
So many hard times.
The physical aches and pains from carrying all the stuff and half the kids on and off buses, coaches, boats, trains and planes. The rushing for public transport to get to the beach cause there was only a few buses a day. The missing of busses cause I had the wrong timetable. The keeping small people entertained whilst waiting for buses near cliff edges. The precarious walks along the main road with no pavement to get to the bus stops. The collapsing of the buggy on the side of said main roads cause it had to go under, not on, the bus. Both children having near misses in the bus station within half a minute of each other. Trying to manage two opposing needs and wants for the children and failing them both. The constant feeling of being on edge with managing the risks of the roads, the pools, baby running off, the chocking hazards (little one puts EVERYTHING in his mouth), the list was endless. My anxiety was sky high. The final night culminating in an incident I daren’t retell. My de-spectacled eldest stared, wide-eyed and mystified. Not comprehending his mother’s panicked words. “It’s all OK,” were the only words I wanted to hear. But there was no-one to whisper them.
Anxiety, paired with lots of judgemental folks assholes, meant shouty mum came out in full force. Their judgement undermining the very thing they were so dismissive of – my parenting ability. I know we shouldn’t care what others think, but I have a shaky sense of my parenting skills at the best of times. I can’t prevent all risks to my children; their assessment was I wasn’t preventing enough of them (by allowing baby more free reign than some would give). It was clear I’d be blamed if anything happened. Yet I already knew that any injury would be my fault and mine alone. That goes with the territory of being the only parent on duty all day, every day. I already know I’m not a good a mum as I could be – should be – because I alone am doing a job made for two. Their judgement added to my insecurity ten-fold. Ironically, not for the parenting they were angry about – but the snapping and shouting.
I swayed between the idea of never leaving my home again and booking a one way ticket to travel the world in a more relaxed manner. Each trip I learn a little more about the ‘best’ ways to travel solo with small people in tow. This time I got a lot of it wrong. I misjudged the accommodation and the location, but I still believe the benefits of travel outweigh the benefits of sitting still, if only I can find a better balance to be had when we are away.
One day it will get easier. And one day, neither child will want to come with me. So until that day I’ll keep pushing myself to see the most of this crazy world and help my kids to explore it too.
I might just need a year to recover first.
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If you want to read more about travelling as a single mum I’ve written about it here, here and here.