For the past four and half years, my partner and I have lived and breathed our children. Aside from the occasional date night and one night away for a wedding, our lives have pretty much revolved around our two boys.
Don’t get me wrong, this is our choice. My partner works away a lot and when he is home we prefer to spend the time as a family.
This year we decided to be selfish. We booked our first ever overseas holiday and we didn’t include our children.
Hawaii for ten days. That would be ten days without the following:
– Filling my handbag with endless snacks and ridiculously heavy water bottles day in and day out
– Endless conversations about who is better – Spiderman, Batman or Ironman
– A 6.30pm curfew
– Meals consisting entirely of meat and three veg, which is pretty much all my super fussy four year old will eat
– Constant arguments over the application of sunscreen
Needless to say, we were just a little bit excited.
I had envisaged that I would be a little teary when it came time to say goodbye. But we had arranged for my parents to take the boys home early from my sister’s 30th the night before we flew out, and let’s just say, the prospect of abandoning all parental responsibility was a lot easier to handle when armed with a bottle of Sparkling.
We got to Hawaii and yes, straight away it felt like something was missing – the idea of missing my children. For the first few days, I didn’t miss them. I hiked, I drank a few cocktails, I swam in the pool and the beach. I went out for dinner at a “grown up” restaurant with a menu that didn’t offer chicken nuggets.