This was published 9 months ago
Travelling with kids is like dragging a suitcase with a squeaky wheel
By Jo Stanley
We’ve just started planning a family holiday. Or rather, dreaming of where we might go. We’re in that exciting phase where limitless possibilities around Australia and the world open up before us. Well, limitless except for budget, time and my husband’s flat-out refusal to ever go camping due to a pathological fear of mud.
Holidays shape who we are in big and tiny, surprising and incidental ways. Credit: ISTOCK
But wherever we end up, I know we’re blessed to be there. Especially because, when I was a kid, family holidays were rare, extremely hard-earned by my single mum, and humble. I get the value of time spent in a sandy caravan in a seaside town you could do as a day trip. Just to be away from the same old streets where we lived was freedom.
So when I start dreaming of our vacay, I knew I’d be happy anywhere from Hobart to Hanoi, from Bali to Bright. Anywhere I can be horizontal with a book. And my noise-cancelling headphones. Because history shows that no matter the paradise, my kid will find a reason to complain. So actually, where I’d really like us to holiday is a place called Gratitude.
Every parent knows what I mean. You spend a small fortune for the trip of a lifetime, expecting laughs, wonder and family bliss. And sure, you do have some good times over the incessant whining. But otherwise, the heat in Bali is too hot, or the buildings in Rome are too old, or the food in Japan is too weird. Or why did you make me come to stinky old Paris when all my friends are at Sienna’s birthday party at Chadstone Shopping Centre right now? That’s not my kid, or our family holiday, but mums talk. Travelling with toddlers-to-teens is like dragging a suitcase with a squeaky wheel (and if this feels familiar, I say to you, get on the miracle of anti-noise technology).
I learnt this on our family trip to Hawaii. Island paradise, spectacular sunshine, beaches we dream of. And a kid who threw a monumental wobbly because, horrific parents that we are, we made her leave the hotel room for the third day in a row. And demanded she lift her head from the screen, which she hadn’t put down since she left home. If it wasn’t for the turbulence, she wouldn’t have known we’d been on a plane.
And then, I’m ashamed to admit, I too threw a tanty, this time poolside. Because honestly, can I please just be left alone to enjoy my day on a sun lounge with a good book and a cocktail? But no, instead I must witness every single thing the teenager does, which is both boring and annoying. “Mum, watch me dive.” “Mum, look at this.” Seriously, it’s my holiday too! Also, you have a father and he has eyes!
This is why mothers need regular holidays on their own, with enough shopping, pampering, day drinking and Liane Moriarty to restore their tolerance.
JO STANLEY
Ugh. Epic parent fail. What a mean Mum. This is why mothers need regular holidays on their own, with enough shopping, pampering, day drinking and Liane Moriarty to restore their tolerance for the dull side of parenting.
Fortunately for me, my guilt is alleviated by the joy with which I hear my kid talk about that holiday now. The surfing, the beaches, even the half-day hike (at the time, walking further than the breakfast buffet was apparently torture). It seems gratitude can grow with memories. And even in hindsight, that counts.
Holidays have many lives. Beyond the actual time away and days filled with colour and sounds and food and faces and lots and lots of laundry, they live again in the stories we tell. The anecdotes that become family folklore, or the truths that are stretched for the sake of a laugh and a best man’s speech down the track. And, of course, in the photos we keep and share (although a little less Italy and Greece in my Insta feed would be appreciated, thanks).
But maybe most importantly, our holidays live in us, as they shape who we are in big and tiny, surprising and incidental ways. They surface in our knowledge and skills and understanding of the world. And tolerance of travel companions who drive us nuts.
So, on the basis that I’m certain it will be the making of her, I will withstand the whinging and continue to force my daughter to stroll the galleries and cycle the bike paths, to carry her own bags and remember her own bottle of water.
And I will be grateful for every minute we have together, in any part of the world. For the fun moments and the cranky moments, the joyful and the boring. And for the noise-cancelling headphones. So, so grateful for those.
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