In years gone by, the blow of getting home from a holiday was buffered with the joys of putting on my skinny jeans and a white tee and receiving comments about my fantastic tan, beachy blonde hair and spotless skin. This year, there is more chance of those prickhole Ryan Air shitflaps not delaying our flight for 2.5 hours, than that happening.
As I write, I am sitting on a beautiful balcony, with what is essentially a pint of wine, sea crusted hair, dark circles under my eyes, four billion mosquito bites and paler than when I left. The reason? We are on holiday with three children.
Many years ago Jonathan and I met in Mallorca, when my bestie from school took me on one of her family holidays. It was there I met the quirky, shy “skater boy” with the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Years (and many holidays) later (and after confirmation that in fact Jonathan couldn’t really skate that well and the glistening eyes and sultry gaze was as a result of too many “drinks” acquired from African merchandise salesman on dark corners of the beach at 2am), we are here with our two boys and my step son Finley.
It was never going to be easy, in a non-air conditioned apartment, with stone floors and hardwood furniture designed with concussion as their primary function and a balcony with railings spaced just wide enough to potentially lose a child through, but we made it here (no thanks to the bastard Ryan Air fuckplanks, who made us wait on a runway with not even a gin to numb the pain of an overtired 8 month old and bored 2 year old).
We are a week in and Jonathan still hasn’t unpacked his suitcase. I’ve barely got a tan line, despite the sweltering heat. None of the boys have accepted that suncream is a necessity and neither Jonathan or I are any better at putting those shitting UV suits on the small ones. I swear, putting a leotard on a disgruntled goat would be easier.
Once adorned in their “Dancing on Ice” style swimwear, suitably creamed, the packing of the beach bag begins. Nappies, wipes, drinks, snacks, dummies, towels, armbands – the list goes on.
“FUCK I forgot the hats.”
”It doesn’t matter, we won’t be out for long”
”One of the children is ginger – in the time we have taken discussing the hats he has already burst into flames…”
Once we have hit the beach (at 7am of course), it’s a full 30 minutes of stopping one from drowning, one from eating sand and one from tormenting seagulls. Then home, for the third breakfast of the day and stopping Ralph (8 months) from cracking his head open/eating a pine needle and Leo from buggering off out the door.
It is important to note that we are staying next door to Jonathan’s parents, my in-laws, who (god bless them), tolerate us all raiding their fridge, causing chaos in their living room and have stocked our fridge with wine. At the start of the week it was very stressful to stop Leo from running out the door, but now we basically leave it open as he trots off to Nanna’s to help “flush a big poo” down a blocked bog (sorry Susanne).
Nap time is glorious. We tag team, so one stays up with the little ones whilst the other puts zero cream on in an attempt to get some colour in the blazing sun. The time is often spent on father in laws boat, drinking wine at an unearthly hour and enjoying competitions for the “best jump” with Finley (9). Then it’s lunch and time to consume obscene amounts of Parma ham with Brie and an array of “picky bits” – the boys eat anything so thank god are pretty easy to keep alive in terms of nutrition.
Afternoons consist of more sun cream, more leotards and lots of getting in and out of the sea, before bed time.
By 9pm we are knackered and so after the usual married couple rows (mostly about why it’s inappropriate to have “adult time” whilst sharing a room with a baby (thank Christ for that baby)), we head to bed, also known as the “kiln”, to get feasted on by bugs.
Then it all begins again.
What I’ve neglected to mention is that all of the kids, when they’re not pricking off, are an absolute joy to be around and seeing their little happy faces makes it all worthwhile.
I’ve just been “checked out” by two men (teenage boys) whilst sitting on the balcony. Well, either that or they were pointing and smiling at the entertaining parrot in the apartment below us…
We are so lucky to be here and not only that, be here with our three boys and our family – so don’t misinterpret my moaning for complacency.
BUT, I am really looking forward to not having to baste the kids and wipe sand out of their arse cracks. And I’m hoping Jonathan unpacks his suitcase once we get home. And those fuckcrack Ryanair shitc***s sort their fucking lives out!
PS. Jonathan edited this and added the majority of the swearing.
PPS. My father in law got called a C*** by an elderly Spanish lady today, for starting his outboard engine too close to the shoreline. I forgot to shoehorn that in earlier but was too hilarious not to mention.