Someone once said to me that parenting is like gold mining. You have to dig through a lot of dirt and rubble and falling rocks but every so often, you find a golden nugget and it’s pure joy. It makes it all worth it.
But still, a huge proportion of childrearing is that relentless rubble known as bath, bottle, bed and repeat. It’s kind of like a movie on a never-ending loop. Even if you love that movie, that sh*t gets tedious sometimes.
So last year when my bestie got engaged and a wedding date was set in the diary, it was decided that the hubby and I would have our first overseas weekend – two nights, three days – without our babe, who is now more like a stroppy teen at almost two years old.
We jumped around for almost a year, saying things like, “It’s going to be lit”. That’s what young child-free people say and we were, for two nights and three days, going to be one of them. Oh the sweet delight of it all.
It was the light at the end of our parenting-fatigue tunnel. My son Max is a night-time jerk who is yet to sleep a full night. We’re hoping he’s setting himself for a high-flying job that suits those who function on just three-hours sleep a night.
Anyway, the weekend. The Weekend. The bags were packed, the outfits chosen, the swanky hotel booked and we had a pocket full of cash to splash on complex cocktails to be consumed whenever and wherever the hell we wanted.
Yes, it was going to be like The Hangover, albeit a slightly pathetic parent version. But the possibilities (and the Instagram hashtags) were endless. Who was getting the face tattoo? We weren’t yet sure. #parentsontour
But just like everything in life, especially in parenting life, expectation versus reality is always slightly skewed. We thought we’d be running out the door, jumping into the car and heading to the airport as fast as you could say, “Let’s get this mother-rucking party started”.