I’ve just spent a week in North Wales with my four year old (A) and two month old (Z), plus nanny and grandpa (and one aunty and her boyfriend for a couple of nights). North Wales – the place renowned for stunning scenery, beautiful beaches and wonderful weather. Well OK, maybe not the latter. As with all holidays, I arrived feeling exhausted and left feeling even more so. The time in between was a heady mix of lovely, and tear-my-hair-out, moments. Here are a few of the best and worst ones.
Spending approximately five hours travelling to our destination for night one (not quite our final destination) with baby, child, buggy and fuck off suitcase. Major highlight being Virgin trains NOT providing any space suitable for a pushchair. Having to drag all of us, plus crap, through three carriages which were exactly the same width as the buggy. And the toilet situation not catering for solo travellers with smalls either. Where exactly do you put the baby when you’re having a piss? They have cleverly designed the baby change so it’s behind the loo so you can’t use that. On the way I opted to hold my 9kg baby as I squatted above the filthy seat. On the way back I went for change mat and baby on the floor so I could wipe my own arse without losing my balance. Well done Virgin trains. Good job the tickets were dirt cheap… oh wait…
Arriving at the destination and being met off the train my by wonderful parents. One point to parents.
Realising we are on the top floor of the crappiest hotel in town and my son thinks it’s sooooo exciting that we are essentially sleeping in a corridor in the loft with beds along the edge. He decided to do the only normal four-year old thing to do in such circumstances – stomp up and down said corridor till about midnight and then wake up at 6am to start all over again. Possibly the only worst place to be would have been in the room underneath us.
Getting to have two baths without any small people in was pretty awesome. The first one lasted about 7.5 minutes before the kids decided I’d had my quota of ‘rest’ and demanded to jump in (A) and be fed IMMEDIATELY (Z). The second bath was strategically planned – get me, learning how to make the most of having helpful adult company. Baby was fed and left with the grandparents. Bath was filled up in advance. Then I enticed the four year old into the shower room upstairs and knew he’d stay put there forever (not like I was paying the hot water bill so what did I care). Only my two-month postpartum pelvic floor muscle could only manage nine minutes before I pissed myself. Yes folks. That’s right. My chance for a relaxing bath and I pissed in it. Even the posh bath salts and lavender oil that my super kind doula had given me wasn’t going to mask that. Bath over.
Dealing with a ridiculously hyper four year old was definitely the worst thing of the holiday. When we were out and about he could run free to his hearts content so it was generally fine bar the usual dramas. But in the house it was a different matter. He was doing somersaults off the sofa, jumping on the beds, climbing on the tables, and just generally stressing the hell out of everyone that he was going to a) land on the baby b) knock over some fragile ornament that the house was stuffed full of c) crack his head open d) do all of the above in an impressive acrobatic move. Bedtime was horrendous. The running, jumping, throwing things in the air and ignoring all requests/ instructions/ begging reached peak craziness between 7 and 11pm. Every.Fucking.Night. After two nights I was ready to pack our bags and head home. Luckily the beach day arrived just in time to draw me back from the edge.
Going to the beach on two separate days and NOT having to wear an anorak was pretty amazing. We were in the area where we used to go on family holidays as kids. Thanks to global warming the North Wales sea was now a pleasant melted snow temperature which once you got accustomed to it wasn’t so bad meant you got pins and needles and went numb which helped with the pelvic pains. Best bits by far were going exploring with my four year old and having someone else hold the baby while I did it. We found rock pools and caves and I remembered so much of it from my childhood holidays – like the exact same caves and tunnels – it was incredible.
Racing my son up a mountain was nice. I say race. I sort of hobbled at a slightly faster pace than walking. I did win a couple of the “races” though. And we made it to the top. I should probably admit the ‘mountain’ is only described as such by the borrowers, most average sized humans would describe it as a slight incline. But you know, we did it. Yay.
Dealing with my parents the whole time was a mixed blessing. It was great to have someone to hold the baby occasionally and to read to the four year old. But when my son was being hyper, having three voices scream at him instead of one did nothing to assist matters. In fact, it was quite clear that all the added attention was making him worse. My dad is a *bit* of a control freak at the best of times and he would go ape at the smallest thing which would wind me up and then off we all go. Like one of those wind up baby mobiles, spinning and wobbling round after each other, never quite catching up with A at the centre sporting a massive grin, loving the effect he was having. On a number of occasions I had to remind them that I, and I alone, was the parent. It’s kind of like having to compromise with a partner, only ten times worse because they are your parents and you shouldn’t have to compromise with them about how you parent YOUR child. They didn’t need to jump in when A was being a nightmare. They should have been enjoying being grandparents – soaking in the nice moments and ignoring the bad. As sods law goes, by the end of the week we had all started to settle into it a bit and A went to bed at a miraculous 10.15pm with only 67% the level of drama of the other nights.
Reinventing my childhood but with better results was inspiring and surprising. As kids we were dragged round every old church in North Wales. I’m not talking National Trust venues, just bog standard old churches and graveyards that even the local population failed to visit. My memories involve us kids begging not to go to another one and asking why we couldn’t go to Butlins like “normal” kids (N.B. I have already rectified this tragedy for my first born who has spent an entire weekend at Butlins and he’s not even five). Anyway, on our last morning I let A choose what we would do before leaving. With a skip in his foot he took me off to explore the local graveyard which Grandpa had taken him to earlier in the week. He then spent a good hour asking me to read the gravestones to him and alternating his responses between, “how sad” and, “not too bad” depending on the age the tenant had reached before moving in. Needless to say it was me cajoling him to leave and not vice versa. Apparently the graveyard obsession just skipped a generation in me and my siblings, if only I’d known I could have saved myself a fortune on that trip to Bognor.
No doubt, despite all internal promises of ‘I’m never fucking doing this again’, I will – grandparental health willing – do exactly the same in one years time. Only this time with a much more mobile baby-toddler. Give me strength. But I’d be daft not to. Whilst I have travelled solo and travelled with single mums and both have been great (if slightly stressful when totally solo) there’s no other option where you can holiday with someone that’s willing to hold the baby so you can piss in your own bath. And really, what else would you want to do on holiday with small children and a wrecked pelvic floor?
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*If you enjoyed reading this you might also enjoy reading about our family travels in Georgia and my solo camping trips*