Avec les enfants
Peter Mayle may have had a dreamy Year in Provence (okay that might be a bit of a stretch, it was dotted with terrible weather, unreliable tradespeople and bad restaurants, but even the bad bits seemed romantic). Ferenc Mate and his wife found true love in the people, landscape and lifestyle in Tuscany. But what I neglected to factor in as I read both their accounts in the name of research was one fundamental difference from their adventures to ours. They were without children.
As a disclaimer before I continue I do solemnly swear that I love my children unconditionally and with much enthusiasm. They are very dear to my heart.
But it would be misrepresentation to portray an idyllic holiday. Despite my best efforts to role model some of my favourite all-time families: The Waltons (‘good night John Boy, good night Mary Ellen’ I can be heard to call out at bedtime); the Von Trapps (I have been known to sew outfits for my three daughters in matching fabrics); and any family unit constructed by Enid Blyton (I am still searching for our very own Aunt Fanny) - the cold hard fact is we are far from perfect.
And yet, every time we venture away Jamie and I make the same mistake. Why is it that your expectations of relaxation and child behaviour become so out of skew when you decide to uproot and head somewhere else as a family unit? It’s as though we anticipate some huge transformation relative to the distance it takes to reach a destination.
Almost by design our family holidays always begin with what we like to call the ‘what-the-hell-were-we-thinking’ period of transition. Usually it lasts 48 hours - never less, sometimes more. I’m sure we’re not the only family to experience such trauma but it wouldn’t be a Schaefer family holiday if we didn’t wish we could pack up and return home within the first few days. There was the first international holiday to Coolum, Australia where we sat a 5 and 3 year-old around the dining table and said that if the behaviour didn’t improve we would have to catch a plane home tomorrow. Or the long weekend to the Hilton in Taupo where we were too scared to eat anything but room service because we could not trust our children in public. Even though we share words of encouragement to each other before leaving for the holiday (‘let’s just remember it will happen, we just need to accept it and get through it’) when you’re in the darkness of the first few days sometimes it’s hard to forget you’ll all come out the other end.
Fortunately the 49th hour always comes.
And so it has in our European odyssey - although a trip like this qualifies for a new 48-hour period every time we change location. And for our report card?
Firstly, I haven’t seen the children disappear into a room with an agenda for a meeting, but somehow they seem to have constructed a roster to which they stringently follow and have all bought in to. I am convinced that in my continuous tidying of their belongings I will one day find the piece of paper that details the date and the name of the child for whom it is their responsibility to be ‘The Difficult One’. It seems they have taken on some of our parental encouragement to share and take turns by, in this instance, ensuring that there is always one of the four who will claim the title. I guess it could always be a duo effort and we should be pleased of their commitment to stay steady on the one concentrated effort.
Secondly, there are the usual challenges that come with holidaying with small children. I would estimate that a total of 15% of our entire holiday time has been spent searching for a toilet. We have withheld liquid, tried enforced group toilet stops and encouraged the children to channel their inner camel. I hate to think how many euros we have contributed to the wider economy of the European Union as a result of needless purchasing in bars, cafes and restaurants to then enable us to use the proprietor’s toilets. Sometimes solutions need to be more creative. In complete desperation just this evening while out for a family stroll, the rest of us had to play lookout while Jamie helped Hettie do the chinese squat next to the three crosses portraying the crucifixion at the top of the Site Panoramique in the famous medieval part of our local village. It was one of those parenting decisions you make that just feels wrong on every level. I will be very wary of lightening strikes over the next few days.
Finally, there are the usual parenting interventions you need to make in normal circumstances but when you are all together 24/7 can become a little wary. My top three: Telling the children to be quiet (kids are just kids, I’m hoping to find a secluded spot soon where they can yell and yahoo without bothering anybody - might even join in myself); telling them to Stay.To.The.Right on footpaths to avoid oncoming pedestrian traffic; and finally calling to one or more daydreamers who drift off from the family grouping distracted by something and someone like a mother duck quacking in a wayward duckling. Shame I hadn’t mastered that one by Disneyland Paris…
Oh but it isn’t all bad. Not by any stretch. Travelling with your children, and seeing the world through their eyes, is an unforgettable and amazing experience. But that will have to be the subject for a future post.
Right now, I’m trying to wrap my head around George’s comment at dinner time tonight(bearing in mind he is 9, and we have also brought a 3 and 5 year-old away for this once-in-a-lifetime trip) that “I’ve forgotten everything that happened in Singapore”. Perhaps for the children the once-in-a-lifetime-trip won’t create lasting memories at all. I’m pinning all my hopes on Molly.
