Isn’t travelling a bloody hoot, without kids? I recently got back from The United States Of America. #hothusband and I were away for a total of two weeks and two days and we were KID FREE!
That’s right my faithful friends, no children were involved in the making of this column. I even found myself snarling at random children on the subway as they either ignored the ‘no kids near Celeste’ memo or were just being naughty little law breakers.
Now, I love my kids. I love my kids more than I thought I could even love wine, I really do, but travelling with them is a class-A bag of dicks.
My eldest boy is five and he is super chilled, to the point where he will tell me to “take two deep breaths” to calm the hell down. My two-year-old boy, on the other hand, is trying to kill me. Plain and simple, he wants to see me suffer.
So the idea of being on a 15-hour flight with them makes me want to break something beautiful. Not only is my two-year-old trying to kill me, my five-year-old enjoys a running commentary of just how he’s going to achieve it.
“Mum, Buddy is unwrapping your tampons”, “Mum, Buddy just ate all the chewing gum in your bag”, “Mum, where’s Buddy?” I’m not great at being told I could be parenting better, especially from someone I should be parenting better.
#hothusband and I went to Bali last year with the two boys. We thought it would be a good time to go as we would only pay for one child – two-year-olds fly free. On top of this genius idea, I suggested #hothusband travel over ON HIS OWN for a week of surfing, then the boys and I would meet up with him for some Instagram-worthy family fun in the sun. #goodwife. #stupidwife.
I had far too many sympathetic smiles to count on the flight over and I still, to this day, regret screaming through tears “HE WON’T GO TO ANYONE BUT ME” at the nice air hostess who offered to take my squirming toddler for half an hour.
I am a strong woman, I really am. I had emergency open-heart surgery at 25, birthed two big Maori babies and have survived an entire dance concert with a G-string on sideways. I am tough, but this trip broke me.
I got off the plane with my delirious children who thought sleeping for three minutes on a six-hour flight would be acceptable, dragged them to my tanned, relaxed and ripped husband, as he stood waiting with open arms and stories of his adventures, and threw them at him, exclaiming: “I’m done.”
So you can imagine the excitement (ahem, guilt) we felt when we decided (were forced) to leave our children and go away for two weeks. It was a “work trip” and my mum flew down from the Gold Coast, picked the boys up and flew them back to her place where she and my dad spoiled the boys beyond belief.
I wish I could tell you that I cried for my children like a dog in the street that had been hit by a bus, but I didn’t.
I was too drunk and shopping too hard, uninterrupted by the inevitable “Mum, Buddy just crapped his pants and wants you to look at it” child, to notice. We missed the kids a lot and made sure that we FaceTimed them everyday, but I’d be lying if I said it would have been better if they were there. #hothusband and I threw our backs into being footloose and fancy-free travellers that rode bikes up one-way streets and sat in cafes for hours on end staring at our phones and playing with each others feet under the table. It was bliss.
There is talk of heading back to America with the whole family and I think I will be organising some sort of Celeste-only trip that requires an early departure for this #stupidwife.