Why holidays with the family makes me so ungrateful

My son is probably the best travelled toddler I’ve ever met – in his two and a half years he’s got more air miles than should be legal and is already in double digits of countries visited! I’ve done most of these travels as a single mum so you’d think, by now, I’d be used to the whole single parenting holiday thing. I mean, even I think I would be used to it; sadly it turns out I’m not. Everytime I think I know what to expect it’s different. If I’m being honest, it seems to get steadily more difficult. I know I shouldn’t be saying that, I should be encouraging you to believe that anything is possible, and it is – anything is possible. Apart from one thing – a relaxing holiday with a toddler. That is mission IMpossible. If there is one thing this holiday has taught me, it’s that holidays are much more relaxing in the mind than in reality. This time was going to be different though. Surely holidays with the family would be a different ball game though?

Over the months and years of my son’s life, he has become more mobile on every flight we have taken and hence harder to convince to stay on my lap/ his seat; in each new country he has become more alert and thus more overstimulated by all the new sights, sounds and smells he experiences meaning he takes three hours plus to fall asleep of an evening. I’m sure there will be a tipping point where he suddenly starts to be an easier travel buddy, but for now I’m resigned to holidays meaning two to four hours of sleep a night, daytimes being about keeping a watchful eye on a high-energy ball of craziness running round, and, if I’m honest, not much else.

This time though, I had reason to be more optimistic about the outcome of our holiday; the big difference which I expected to make all the difference, was that this time I wasn’t going as a single mum. This time I was going on holiday with the family, I was going to be one adult amongst five. Yes folks, that’s right, from a ratio of one:one with my son, I was suddenly going to go to a five:one ratio with family members around to help care for my son and give me a much needed break. This was going to be what is affectionately known as a h.o.l.i.d.a.y. Unfortunately that wasn’t quite how it turned out.

I started writing this post at 12.34am during one of the evenings (or should I say mornings) on holiday. The main reason why it took me nearly two more weeks to finish it is because, thanks to being completely exhausted, I got really ill towards the end of the holiday and it’s taken me this long to start to feel well enough to write (and I’m still far from feeling 100%). That night in question I had already sung nursery rhymes to my son for almost two hours, but he was showing no sign of relenting to the tiredness within him. I had taken to holding him tightly whilst continuing the singing, in an attempt to prevent him from jumping up and running out of the room (again) and finally I had given up even with that, and left him to reek havoc in the room whilst I tapped away on my laptop just outside his door. None of it is exactly going to win me a parenting medal and it certainly wasn’t what I had in mind when I was envisioning my relaxing holiday.

Sure, some things were easier than if I was alone, like this night in question, at 12.59am, my mother, having been awoken by my son’s dulcet tones as he screamed the house down, came and sang him to sleep. Somehow though, the exhaustion stopped me being grateful and instead I was just annoyed that my son would quieten down so quickly for someone, anyone, who was not me. The tiredness that pushes me to tears on many an evening, holiday or no holiday, means I could only focus on the fact that my mother hadn’t thought to step in and help three hours earlier when the hell of bedtime began. Perhaps, if I’m honest, I also feel annoyed with myself for not realising that I might be the problem not the solution, and for not reaching out for some help earlier on. Maybe if I’m being really honest, I can feel a little gut wrench inside me when I imagine this is what (some) co-parenting relationships are like; one parent leads the bedtime routine and if they struggle, in comes the reinforcement. I want to be grateful that my mother was there, I want to appreciate that she chose to help me out that night. But I’m so fucking tired and exhausted that gratefulness is too much to bear.

Ironically the holiday also highlighted, that actually some things would have been a lot easier alone – something you don’t catch me saying often. I don’t suppose it’s easier than having a supportive co-partner though, but I think I’d inadvertently thought that’s the role these adults would play – perfect co-parenting partners for the whole holiday. That’s not what happened. The first night I was so worried that my son’s mixture of noisy cries, interspersed with joyful screams, would disturb everyone from getting a good night’s sleep that I couldn’t relax even once he had fallen asleep. I needn’t have worried though, it turns out that if you aren’t responsible for the noise making machine, your mind and body have a pretty effective blocker to ensure you don’t hear them. However, that fear of ruining everyone’s holiday just added to my anxiety levels which were already pretty frazzled. And the worries weren’t just about nighttime noises. I worried that if I didn’t get back to meet everyone at exactly the agreed time they would be annoyed with me, I worried that him being a pain in the restaurant at dinner would annoy them, the worries just went on. When it’s just me I can miss a train, bus, hell, even a plane if I want, and I have noone to blame but me. But most importantly, no one can blame me, but me. I hate being blamed. I’ve been insulted and put down enough in the last few years, I don’t need more people chipping in.

One evening when I was helping to cook dinner, whilst also trying to tidy the small room my son and I were sharing so there was room for us to get into the bed, whilst also preparing a quick dinner for my son who was starving, whilst also trying to feed said meal to him, whilst also trying to make sure he didn’t climb on anything too dangerous (roof terrace on the 6th floor is always slightly nerve wracking with a climber), whilst also trying to ‘relax, you’re on holiday’, my brother walked into the room and failed to notice any of the numerous tasks I was engaged in, instead I overhear him saying ‘oh, I see she isn’t doing anything’. Yep – he went there. He commented on the lazy single mum who was doing the invisible work of a village all on her own whilst the village stood by. Whatsmore, I knew that everyone else had managed to have a pretty relaxing day that day, whilst I’d spent it on high alert as we took my son round the city unable to relax even when it looked like I might be. It was exactly the button I didn’t need pressing, exactly at the moment it didn’t want activating, and it was just another pointer to make me pretty damn ungrateful for the whole experience.

It seems my son didn’t receive the memo that there were now four other adults he could call on for assistance either. I’m so tired of being the only one on call, 24/7, 365, I thought being surrounded by four other adults, all of whom love and enjoy my son, all of whom try to help out, would reduce the burden on me. But at the end of the day, he’s not their son and my son knows that. If I’m there he will chose me and only me to comfort him, anything else and a battle of gigantic proportions ensues.

There were so many times when the help that was forthcoming didn’t even feel like help. With my patience at full stretch I find it hard to remain polite. The voices in my head provide enough back chatter for a lifetime, paired with the constant babbling of my little one, means that when my own parents chirp in with a helpful reminder to pack the nappies, I feel like screaming. I know it sounds like I’m being an ungrateful bitch again. I’m not. Or maybe I am, but I don’t have much choice in the matter. It’s just that I’m so close to collapsing with exhaustion. I’m so tired of the constant worries and reminders and to do lists in my own head I don’t, I really don’t, have space for comments to come from outside my head too.

Then there’s all the comments that I’m essentially a crap parent. I know on one
level that my family think I’m a good great mother, but it’s hard to focus on that thought when the daily comments are not pointing that way. The comments that I shouldn’t be letting him do x, y, z. That I should just stop him doing a, b, c (like it’s easy!). Yes, I’m sure if he was your

son that’s what you’d do, but clearly I’ve chosen not to, for a variety of reason – sometimes because I don’t think that’s the best way to deal with him, sometimes – shock horror – because I actually think he’s being a bloody amazingly well behaved toddler being dragged around the country, new places to sleep. Damp beds. Cold beds. Hot beds. All of it. And every time he acclimatises better than most adults I know. And sometimes it’s just because I don’t have the energy to fight every battle with him. I certainly don’t have the energy to fight every battle plus the battle with my family to say I am actually not such a bad parent after all.

It seems in hindsight, what I wanted when I went away with four other adults was not actually what was on offer at all. What I wanted, really, really wanted, was someone to share the responsibility of my son with, someone who I’ve discussed childrearing with and is in (at least vague) agreement on how we do this. Family members accompanying you on a break is not the same thing. This holiday was about as relaxing as childbirth was.

The whole experience just sent my anxiety levels through the roof. Feeling like I was constantly on guard puts you in a fight or flight mode, if you’ve known that, you’ll know that it’s exhausting on another level entirely. Add in some miscommunications and all hell breaks loose. Somehow relying on others but knowing that I shouldn’t rely on others, is even more exhausting than only relying on myself. Like when I left my son with my mum while I popped to the shop and then she’s not at the pre-arranged place and we have no way to contact each other. I start to panic. When it’s me, I don’t let him out of my sight so I don’t have this to contend with. I find her. I snap. Why wasn’t she where we agreed? It was a misunderstanding, she was just merrily continuing on her way (luckily at a rather slow pace). Again, I seem like an ungrateful bitch.

The worst thing is the questions when you return, everyone asks – how was the holiday? But they don’t really want to know how the holiday was. They want to hear a few nice stories, perhaps a couple of funny anecdotes, but not a general ungrateful bitch sounding whinge about how fucking exhausted you are and how you spent most of it feeling like an anxious wreck. So when people ask how the holiday was I smile sweetly and share my beautiful pictures and lap up the lie that is what we so often show on social media. But here, in the realms of my (almost) anonymous blog I will tell you how fucking draining and exhausting the whole thing was.

At the end of this holiday I made a promise to myself that next time I want to take a holiday I will do no such thing. Instead I will book a week’s full time childcare, take the time off work and just stay at home relaxing whilst my son is out of my hair. I know I won’t really do that though; time erases even the most stressful memories and distance makes them become rosier and rosier until you think that trekking round Africa with a toddler would really be a great idea afterall. Anyone want to come with me?

Who else has holidayed with family? Did you have similar experiences? 

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