After a 16-hour flight, including a stop over and two taxi rides, we pulled into our village in Dorset a little shell shocked but thrilled to be home after our trip to Cambodia. The children scampered around the house in excitement and instantly threw themselves back into toys they had not set their eyes on for a few weeks. My husband and I began the mammoth task of unpacking wondering how we were going to get through the long day ahead with the jet lag looming.
After two weeks of spicy food, including countless stir fries and bowls of rice, the children opted for cereal, baked beans, toast and endless glasses of milk throughout the day. As my husband and I began to fade, becoming increasingly spaced out, the children’s hyperactivity levels gradually rose as did the noise levels.
I was in the midst of loading yet more washing into the machine when I was aware of a sudden stillness in the house. The noise of machine guns and shrieking was replaced by silence. I discovered The Toddler asleep with his head on the kitchen table, almost mid-mouthful, my son lying sprawled across the playroom floor mid-Power Rangers and our daughter curled up on her bed asleep mid-Secret Seven book. It was as if someone had cast a magic sleep spell on the house. The problem was that it was 4pm.
A couple of hours later, my husband and I were also defeated by tiredness. We collapsed into bed and I drifted into a dream-like state expecting to be offered a drink by a Singapore Air Hostess at any moment. Instead I was woken by shrieks of, “Can we have breakfast?” Still excited by the novelty of bowls of Cornflakes and fresh milk, I dragged myself downstairs leaving the children to dress into their school uniform. I let the dogs outside and glanced at the kitchen clock. 4am! I knew there was no hope of getting the children or dogs back to bed. There was nothing more for it than a couple of DVDs to take us all through the next five hours until school. As I sipped my tea at the kitchen table waiting for BBC Breakfast to begin, I heard barking outside. Aware of the neighbours, I dashed out to discover the dogs dashing down the lane after a keen jogger. There was no alternative but to run after them. The jogger glanced back stunned as he was faced with a large pregnant lady, dressed in nothing but an inappropriate nightie chasing after him in the early hours. Unbeknown to him, she was beset by jet lag.
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Friday, 2 May 2008
Summer holiday planning
It is about this time of the year, when I am frequently asked, “What are you doing in the Summer Holidays?” In the middle of April, this question immediately stresses me out. I have just about coped with 17 days of Easter holidays, but the thought of 42 days of Summer holidays fills me with total panic. In fact, put like that, Easter is just a warm up – a rehearsal for the long stretch that will hit us all at the end of July.
As usual, we have left it to the last minute, despite saying to ourselves year after year that we will get our acts together earlier. Finally, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other mothers discussing holidays in the playground last week, I felt compelled to set my mind to the task. As always, the difficulty is finding one that bridges the gap between what parents would call a holiday, versus what a six, four and two year-old would call a holiday.
I gave up on the idea of sitting in the local travel agent leafing through brochures, after The Toddler decided to join in, resulting in a whole row of Safari holiday brochures toppling down from the shelves around him. It was now all down to The Internet with The Toddler parked in front of an extended episode of Balamory.
My husband and the children’s fist choice is camping, one that fills me with dread. However, last year I made the fatal mistake of saying to my husband (and printing in a Family Ties article) that I would not consider a camping holiday, “on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand.” Now that The Toddler is fully ‘potted’, I have no excuse so camping is back on the agenda. I made a feeble attempt to ‘google’ a few campsites, but promptly gave up when I stumbled upon a website containing a whole blog of unhappy campers’ feedback, from talk of rats to dangerous caterpillars! This prompted me to switch to my ideal family holiday, involving sun, sea, pool, beach and some very nice friendly kids clubs nearby.
Meanwhile, my husband persisted with his investigation of the perfect camping holiday, refusing to believe any of the negative feedback, swiftly labelling them all as, “amateur campers.” It soon turned into a race. We sat in bed with our laptops on our laps, surfing like mad into the early hours, utterly determined to find the perfect option. Unfortunately, my perfect holiday stumbled at the first hurdle when we realised that camping was a fifth of the price. I had lost and had to submit to the idea of joining the merry camping fraternity, water slides, kids entertainers and the rest. Thankfully, my husband did compromise on sleeping under canvas and has booked us into a static mobile home. “It will be great,” he says and then adds, excitedly, “It’s even got decking!”
As usual, we have left it to the last minute, despite saying to ourselves year after year that we will get our acts together earlier. Finally, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other mothers discussing holidays in the playground last week, I felt compelled to set my mind to the task. As always, the difficulty is finding one that bridges the gap between what parents would call a holiday, versus what a six, four and two year-old would call a holiday.
I gave up on the idea of sitting in the local travel agent leafing through brochures, after The Toddler decided to join in, resulting in a whole row of Safari holiday brochures toppling down from the shelves around him. It was now all down to The Internet with The Toddler parked in front of an extended episode of Balamory.
My husband and the children’s fist choice is camping, one that fills me with dread. However, last year I made the fatal mistake of saying to my husband (and printing in a Family Ties article) that I would not consider a camping holiday, “on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand.” Now that The Toddler is fully ‘potted’, I have no excuse so camping is back on the agenda. I made a feeble attempt to ‘google’ a few campsites, but promptly gave up when I stumbled upon a website containing a whole blog of unhappy campers’ feedback, from talk of rats to dangerous caterpillars! This prompted me to switch to my ideal family holiday, involving sun, sea, pool, beach and some very nice friendly kids clubs nearby.
Meanwhile, my husband persisted with his investigation of the perfect camping holiday, refusing to believe any of the negative feedback, swiftly labelling them all as, “amateur campers.” It soon turned into a race. We sat in bed with our laptops on our laps, surfing like mad into the early hours, utterly determined to find the perfect option. Unfortunately, my perfect holiday stumbled at the first hurdle when we realised that camping was a fifth of the price. I had lost and had to submit to the idea of joining the merry camping fraternity, water slides, kids entertainers and the rest. Thankfully, my husband did compromise on sleeping under canvas and has booked us into a static mobile home. “It will be great,” he says and then adds, excitedly, “It’s even got decking!”
Friday, 29 February 2008
Family-friendly fun
The brochure‘s description of a “family-friendly hotel on the beach with luxury interconnecting rooms,” sounded perfect. It was just what we needed. My husband had very thoughtfully decided give me a break from the daily ritual of mothehood and had booked two nights away. The children were delighted with Daddy’s thoughtful idea and set about packing their bags including passports, despite the hotel being on the Dorset coast.
We arrived to find the hotel was certainly child-friendly. There were small people everywhere and what seemed to be few parents dotted around hotel sofas trying to enjoy an article or two of the newspaper. We were taken to our room which did indeed have an interconnecting room which was just large cnough to house the much talked about bunk bed. In the corner of our room was a cot for the Toddler. We were happy with our close knit room and the children were excited about their new sleeping arrangements.
As in many child-friendly hotels, there are different eating options but given our children are a litle shy, we knew the prospect of having a quiet dinner without them was out of the question. We compromised with a 7pm sitting in the dining room, with the children seated around us in true family-friendly style. After a lively meal full of bribery, to ensure they stayed in their seats, we called it a night. At 8pm, everyone was in their beds including my husband and I. The children were scared sleeping with the door shut and wanted to be able to see us and The Toddler was furious at us calling time. So, here we were - the five us huddled together in the family-friendly room. My husband and I lay there in silence, hardly daring to move, to try and encourage the children to go to sleep. When we wanted to speak to each other, we would shuffle down under the duvet and whisper. It reminded me of a school dormitory, trying not to get caught talking after lights out. Throughout the night, I constantly sat bolt upright with the slightest snuffle from one of the children. Occasionally, I would be met with The Toddler bobbing up like a meerkat, peering over the edge of his cot and letting out a loud cry. Just as I began drifting into a much needed sleep, the morning crept up on us and we were all greeted by family-friendly screams of excitement from other children in the corridor. My husband turned to me and said, “Well, at least you aren’t cooking the breakfast!”
We arrived to find the hotel was certainly child-friendly. There were small people everywhere and what seemed to be few parents dotted around hotel sofas trying to enjoy an article or two of the newspaper. We were taken to our room which did indeed have an interconnecting room which was just large cnough to house the much talked about bunk bed. In the corner of our room was a cot for the Toddler. We were happy with our close knit room and the children were excited about their new sleeping arrangements.
As in many child-friendly hotels, there are different eating options but given our children are a litle shy, we knew the prospect of having a quiet dinner without them was out of the question. We compromised with a 7pm sitting in the dining room, with the children seated around us in true family-friendly style. After a lively meal full of bribery, to ensure they stayed in their seats, we called it a night. At 8pm, everyone was in their beds including my husband and I. The children were scared sleeping with the door shut and wanted to be able to see us and The Toddler was furious at us calling time. So, here we were - the five us huddled together in the family-friendly room. My husband and I lay there in silence, hardly daring to move, to try and encourage the children to go to sleep. When we wanted to speak to each other, we would shuffle down under the duvet and whisper. It reminded me of a school dormitory, trying not to get caught talking after lights out. Throughout the night, I constantly sat bolt upright with the slightest snuffle from one of the children. Occasionally, I would be met with The Toddler bobbing up like a meerkat, peering over the edge of his cot and letting out a loud cry. Just as I began drifting into a much needed sleep, the morning crept up on us and we were all greeted by family-friendly screams of excitement from other children in the corridor. My husband turned to me and said, “Well, at least you aren’t cooking the breakfast!”
Friday, 17 August 2007
The beach
It is the first day of our annual summer holiday in the Isle of Wight. The children have one thing on their tiny minds – the beach. The beach bags are packed, preparing for every eventuality. Coats, wellies and jumpers combined with sun tan lotion, swimming costumes and towels. One giant family beach rug and a bland picnic put together whilst shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into three small starlings. All the usual baby kit including the obligatory nappies – oh, the thought of changing a wriggling baby on the sand!
Finally, we drive into the car park and begin to unload the car and load up my husband. His face peaks out beneath the towels and rug which he has thrown around his neck, to give himself maximum arm capacity for the assortment of bags. I push the laden down buggy and the children reluctantly carry a bucket each. We stroll down to the beach, but our flip flops barely touch the sand before we are enticed into a nearby stall to buy three small pairs of sea shoes, two fishing nets, and two folding chairs which my husband convinces me will make our picnic more civilised and less sandy.
On the beach, we search for a spare plot - a challenge given it is one of the first sunny days this summer and the sand is littered with British holidaymakers and their wind breakers. We begin our hike up the beach, and abandon the buggy, to begin a treacherous climb over the rocks to reach the one remaining patch of sand. We arrive, looking as if we have trekked across the Sahara, carrying a couple of suitcases. The children squeal with delight at the edge of the water before they are rounded up for a mass sun tan lotion application. I chase ‘The Baby’ around the beach on my hands and knees slapping on cream at any opportunity. My husband lays out the ham sandwiches, brownish bananas, water bottles and digestive biscuits. The Baby takes one look at it and lets out an almighty scream. This is because he has been watching the neighbouring family lay out their picnic on the adjoining rug, consisting of cheesy Wotsits, jaffa cakes, a swiss roll and chip butties. In full toddler style, he has no shame in abandoning our rug, join our rather alarmed neighbours and crossly point to the Wotsits. Embarassed, we scoop him up, smile and frantically try and divert him with a piece of cucumber. Meanwhile, the children are comfortably perched on the new picnic chairs tucking into their sandwiches. As we sit on the picnic rug, which is now covered in sand and tuck into a rather grainy sandwich, my husband says, “You can’t beat an English beach holiday can you!”
Finally, we drive into the car park and begin to unload the car and load up my husband. His face peaks out beneath the towels and rug which he has thrown around his neck, to give himself maximum arm capacity for the assortment of bags. I push the laden down buggy and the children reluctantly carry a bucket each. We stroll down to the beach, but our flip flops barely touch the sand before we are enticed into a nearby stall to buy three small pairs of sea shoes, two fishing nets, and two folding chairs which my husband convinces me will make our picnic more civilised and less sandy.
On the beach, we search for a spare plot - a challenge given it is one of the first sunny days this summer and the sand is littered with British holidaymakers and their wind breakers. We begin our hike up the beach, and abandon the buggy, to begin a treacherous climb over the rocks to reach the one remaining patch of sand. We arrive, looking as if we have trekked across the Sahara, carrying a couple of suitcases. The children squeal with delight at the edge of the water before they are rounded up for a mass sun tan lotion application. I chase ‘The Baby’ around the beach on my hands and knees slapping on cream at any opportunity. My husband lays out the ham sandwiches, brownish bananas, water bottles and digestive biscuits. The Baby takes one look at it and lets out an almighty scream. This is because he has been watching the neighbouring family lay out their picnic on the adjoining rug, consisting of cheesy Wotsits, jaffa cakes, a swiss roll and chip butties. In full toddler style, he has no shame in abandoning our rug, join our rather alarmed neighbours and crossly point to the Wotsits. Embarassed, we scoop him up, smile and frantically try and divert him with a piece of cucumber. Meanwhile, the children are comfortably perched on the new picnic chairs tucking into their sandwiches. As we sit on the picnic rug, which is now covered in sand and tuck into a rather grainy sandwich, my husband says, “You can’t beat an English beach holiday can you!”
Friday, 13 July 2007
Summer holidays
In three weeks time, the summer holidays will be upon us. Looking at the current weather conditions, I am beginning to panic at the thought of three small children, a border terrorist and me in a confined space for 6 weeks, or 45 days to be precise.
We have had eleven months to plan for it, but as usual with a few weeks to go, my husband and I finally sit down, stare at pages of blank spaces in the diary and try and decide how to fill them. My mother and mother-in-law both often remark, “It is good for children to be bored and entertain themselves.” This is all very well, but I remember that feeling of boredom in the summer holidays, with limited television, and a dog walk being my mother’s answer to it all. I am also a little concerned about my own sanity dealing with three starlings twittering, “I’m bored. What can we do?” for 45 days.
As we run through the holiday options, albeit a touch late when no doubt most things have been booked for months, we endeavour to find the perfect summer holiday solution. Hotel is one option but is ruled out partly due to our 18-month-old’s regular high pitch attention-seeking screeches - not something we want to inflict upon other fellow holiday makers. A Villa in Europe, where our children can be free to launch into tantrums or screech to their hearts content. However, the thought of my husband being on constant life guard duty to three non-swimmers and me feeding the washing machine with sweaty beach towels, whilst trying to prepare meals in someone else’s kitchen, don’t exactly appeal. A Family Resort, full of other people’s children all screaming in a shared swimming pool, surrounded by rows of parents reclined on sun loungers all desperately hoping their children will make friends so that they can enjoy a couple of pages of John Grisham or Jilly Cooper undisturbed. However, the last time we tried this it was so hot that our two year old spent the week playing with his dinky cars inside the public loos as eveywhere was too hot. My husband’s final suggestion was camping which I instantly vetoed – at least for this year - on the grounds of nappies.
After much debate, we have settled on spending a week in Wales with friends who have children of similar ages, and the other 38 days at home in Dorset. We plan to fill the garden with obscene amounts of plastic play equipment and throw in the odd treat in the form of a walk across the fields to the village shop to buy a Mini Milk, come rain or shine. Any other suggestions though for the school holidays would be gratefully recieved.
We have had eleven months to plan for it, but as usual with a few weeks to go, my husband and I finally sit down, stare at pages of blank spaces in the diary and try and decide how to fill them. My mother and mother-in-law both often remark, “It is good for children to be bored and entertain themselves.” This is all very well, but I remember that feeling of boredom in the summer holidays, with limited television, and a dog walk being my mother’s answer to it all. I am also a little concerned about my own sanity dealing with three starlings twittering, “I’m bored. What can we do?” for 45 days.
As we run through the holiday options, albeit a touch late when no doubt most things have been booked for months, we endeavour to find the perfect summer holiday solution. Hotel is one option but is ruled out partly due to our 18-month-old’s regular high pitch attention-seeking screeches - not something we want to inflict upon other fellow holiday makers. A Villa in Europe, where our children can be free to launch into tantrums or screech to their hearts content. However, the thought of my husband being on constant life guard duty to three non-swimmers and me feeding the washing machine with sweaty beach towels, whilst trying to prepare meals in someone else’s kitchen, don’t exactly appeal. A Family Resort, full of other people’s children all screaming in a shared swimming pool, surrounded by rows of parents reclined on sun loungers all desperately hoping their children will make friends so that they can enjoy a couple of pages of John Grisham or Jilly Cooper undisturbed. However, the last time we tried this it was so hot that our two year old spent the week playing with his dinky cars inside the public loos as eveywhere was too hot. My husband’s final suggestion was camping which I instantly vetoed – at least for this year - on the grounds of nappies.
After much debate, we have settled on spending a week in Wales with friends who have children of similar ages, and the other 38 days at home in Dorset. We plan to fill the garden with obscene amounts of plastic play equipment and throw in the odd treat in the form of a walk across the fields to the village shop to buy a Mini Milk, come rain or shine. Any other suggestions though for the school holidays would be gratefully recieved.
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