Actually I told them I was ‘going to work’. On a Sunday. Overnight. They’re 4 and 2, I’m pretty sure they bought it.
If I’d said I was going on a holiday they would have wanted to come too. They understand holidays. Holidays are where Grandad custom builds child-sized 2-seater airplanes and you spend hot afternoons with your cousins, squealing on the slip’n’slide on the back lawn (which I was haughtily informed was ‘a WATERslide, Mum, not a sippinslide!’ What would I know?).
And it wasn’t a total lie. I planned to use the time away to write. Uninterrupted. And read. And think.
As I sit here I’ve already written one blog post and read a few dozen pages of an essentially interesting, critically essential but unnecessarily wordy book about the history of childhood. Here’s what I mean. This is an excerpt from Centuries of Childhood, p58:
It is interesting to note that the attempt to distinguish children was generally confined to the boys: the little girls were distinguished only by the false sleeves, abandoned in the eighteenth century, as if childhood separated girls from adult life less than it did boys. The evidence provided by dress bears out the other indications furnished by the history of manners: boys were the first specialized children.
If you hold your nose and say it with a really haughty ye olde English accent it’s even funnier.
Instead, he could have just said:
Girls were stuck with women’s work from the day they were born so no-one bothered to dress them differently.
Boys actually got a childhood. Boys wore different clothes to men so adults didn’t accidentally make boys do really hard work until they had proper abs.
But then it probably wouldn’t be a seminal work because people don’t say ‘proper abs’ in seminal works.
Which probably also explains why I’m a blogger, not an academic.
Anyway, back to my holiday. Here’s a series of jealousy-inducing photos to keep us on track.
I love my boys, I love being a mum but sometimes I just need a break. At least one gorgeous rapscallion is awake by 6.30am and we rarely have kid-free time before 9.00pm these days (that’s a whole other story).
I tried to schedule a ‘day off’ a couple of days before Christmas. Boys were in daycare, Mr D couldn’t get the day off and my annual leave was already booked in. Then Son #2 got sick. Bye bye Mummy’s day off, hello surviving on 2 hours sleep per night for 3 days.
The night away was Mr D’s idea. He called it mental health maintenance.
Staying at the 5-star Stamford Plaza Hotel in Melbourne was entirely my idea, helped along by a Mystery Hotel ($143 for a night in a 1-bedroom apartment with kitchenette and spa bath!!).
Since leaving home at 11.30am today, I’ve done a whole bunch of things I don’t get to do with kids around.
I had a quiet brunch and juice while gazing out over a busy city street.
I checked into a luxury hotel with just one teeny tiny suitcase, staying in a room with one super comfortable queen-sized bed (they even have a pillow menu! I’ll take whichever one I can lay my head on all night and keep to myself, thank you).
I watched Getaway. This used to be part of my Sunday afternoon laze around routine. Today’s episode was all about a luxury river cruise down the Seine. Sigh. When I have a spare $7.5k I’ll look it up.
I dined at the hotel bar on a burger, chips and a beer (classy, aren’t I?).
I had a BATH. I know, right? Baths are for kids. Baths are stressful periods of the day when the kids scream that they don’t want to get in. Then they splash gallons of water all over the bathroom and scream that they don’t want to get out. Then all they want to do is run, squealing and naked, around and around the house.
This bath was different. It had bubbles. And not the kind of bubbles that you get when you squirt the no-name brand electric blue bubble bath that will probably be found to be toxic at some point down the track resulting in a class action but it’s awfully cheap right now and smells just fine and doesn’t dry their skin out so who cares?
No ma’am. This bath was the kind that has golden taps, sweet smelling foam, a contoured end to lay back on and jets that softly woosh warm water all over your aching, tired body and drown out everything else with their steamy white noise soundtrack.
And sadly, my laptop battery is about to go flat and I have managed to forget the charger.
I am, dear reader, destined to spend the next few hours sipping green tea in my fluffy white slippers and fluffy hotel robe and watch Emma with the delightful Gwyneth Paltrow.
Yes, Mummy is having a holiday.
When was the last time you had some time to yourself? Did you feel guilty? Or just relaaaaaaaxed?
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