Going on holiday with the children can fill your head with delusions of being prepared, packing the night before so you can get up, go for a leisurely breakfast and hit the road stress free.
This is logistically impossible.
The reality of it is that you’ll have every man and his next door neighbours baby sitters dog walker wanting to visit before you go and by the time you’ve had dinner the kids will be in full on bitch fit mode so the packing gets left until the morning.
The day of the eagerly anticipated holiday arrives – you’ve been looking forward to this for months.
You attempt to work together as a well oiled team, one sorting the children while the other packs the car.
While chasing the children around with a hairbrush and toothbrushes, you think of ten more things to pack whilst intermittently cleaning the house.
Your partner gives you an exasperated look of confused rage when you produce baby wipes as he tries to solve the mathematical conundrum that is fitting them in the car – he’s seeing the matrix by now – you resist the urge to explain that they are actually an essential item, unless you want to employ your maxed out, otherwise useless credit card to deal with the baby when they have a shit.
The children get confused as, although you’re not the most organised people in the world on a normal day – holiday day you is full on chaotic. Running too and fro picking up random inanimate objects to swear at them as you decide whether you can possibly survive for seven whole days without them.
You and your partner – having your designated jobs – will constantly want to use the same door at the same time and be operating on a cerebral level so far beyond your human capabilities, that this will be about as successful as trying to solve a rubix cube whilst wearing a sodding straight jacket.
So by the time you’re ready to leave the house you and your partner will be frowning, migraine suffering fish wives who can’t speak to each other on a civilised level, as every sentence contains at least five sweary insults, the children are completely losing their shit and the car has reached its absolute maximum capacity to the last cubic millimetre.
FINALY it’s time to start having fun.
Until you realise that the baby will spend at least the first hour of your epic journey screaming and you’ll turn around at some point to realise that the toddler has managed to sneak illegal make up into the car.
Happy days ??