Day 1. Despite days of planning, packing ends in a rush. I waste ten minutes unpacking the boot straining to hear the Find My Phone alert. Phone found, we are off. Hours later, we unpack the car, rain-sodden but optimistic. Soft play, ice cream and wet knickers (not mine): it’s not even 6pm.
Day 2. Blissful, memory-making day. Early morning swim, cycling in dappled shade, tucking into crisps and doughnuts. Curling up on the sofa to finish a book. First night out for months.
Day 3. No sleep. Coffee without the children but I miss their push and pull. The news about George Alagiah shakes me. Nine years seems a lot, but my youngest wouldn’t even be at secondary school. I can’t settle. The children are whisked away to play, play, play so I drink, drink, drink. Somehow, my oldest knows and we fall asleep together, arms wrapped in a perfect circle.
Day 4. The low point: losing my balance in the outdoor pool and giving my youngest an unwelcome dunking. The high point: my oldest wins a prize for her enthusiastic dancing at the kids’ club. This would have been unimaginable a year ago.
Day 5. The holiday has sharpened all my insecurities. I’m clumsy in a new environment, nauseous and anxious. What have I got to offer anyone? The last two years have been dominated by cancer, consumed by worrying about my children: how this affects them, resenting leaving them too soon. When they don’t need me it is tough.
Day 6. The patchy Wi-Fi coincides with my domain expiring and failed attempts to upload a video all about what I’d do with extra time. Not great food for thought. I’ve got a month of holiday ahead but limited time in this cabin #makingmemories. Always obsessing about time……
Day 7. My favourite thing about holidays: lazy breakfast, fresh bread and lots of coffee. Other people make you drinks! Leaving the rituals and routines of the controlled home environment has been unexpectedly tricky and I still haven’t learned to stop fretting about things that haven’t happened yet or what I should be doing. But, as my psychologist used to say, awareness is everything.
Home to piles of washing, plans of play dates and continued efforts to quieten that nagging voice.
These Boobs Were Made For Talking 