the wonder years

Everyone knows one shouldn’t make any big decisions during January in England, but booking this holiday I reckoned was different. After all, I was simply arranging to be away for a few weeks, not emigrating or investing all our money in sunshine lamps.

Long Suffering husband was not so sure. ‘You’ll be on your own for 3 weeks with the girls,’ he pointed out.

‘That’s nothing,’ I’d replied, gazing out at the half-light, half-drizzle of another gloomy London day, ‘Easy-peasy-Japaneasy.’

LS was worried. Based on how well he knows me and how well he knows our children, it was not an irrational concern. Because when I get stressed, things tend not to go so well for him.

But now that we are in our final week, I am rather proud of how the holiday has gone. There have been no midnight SOS calls to LS, demanding that he drop everything and come and sort his children out, because: ‘I can’t. Handle them. ANYMORE.’

I have realised a few home truths along the way though. One of which is that beach holidays are relaxing for everyone except the mum. Especially sole parent mum. Which is why this current beach holiday has at times sailed dangerously close to ‘Cartoon Network’ holiday. After the first week, once everyone has gotten used to the good weather and the excitement of the beach, the standards begin to slide. The decision between a glorious late afternoon swim at the beach and an hour of playing at home before supper (read ‘tv’) becomes more complicated. Because after you’ve packed the bags and locked up and negotiated your way between the ultra-slow, octogenarian Fish Hoek drivers, the wind has picked up a little and as you finally arrive at the beach, Child #3 categorically refuses to get out of the car  because, ‘You know I hate the wind, Mum, you KNOW that.’ At the same time Children 1 & 2 are racing towards the waves. And when, after 20 minutes of uninterrupted whining, Child #3 announces that actually there is nothing in the world she’d like more than to go for a swim, the other 2 are starting to turn blue from the cold. Inevitably at this point the ice cream man appears with that irritating bell of his and one of them trips and cuts open her knee. And as you’re dabbing at the bloody knee whilst handing over the contents of your wallet to the ice cream man, you notice a couple walking along the shoreline, arms entwined and unable to take their eyes off each other and you want to run up to the starry-eyed girl and say, ‘Don’t do it! Look at me – this is the logical conclusion of a romantic walk. It’s not worth it!’

Later though, once all 3 are finally asleep and I feel my levels of motherly love begin to regenerate, as I stroke their salt-sticky hair and kiss their rosy cheeks, I know that these really are the wonder years, filled with magical days, whose hard edges will slowly soften to become the stuff of family legends.