Holidays with children

Always hard. Very nearly always worth it.

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I’ve always loved holidays. They hold some of my happiest memories that I often think about when the weather is grey outside. Most of them are documented in labelled photo albums that I keep in the kitchen cupboard. I take them out quite often to leaf through the pages of sunshine-filled landscapes, smiling faces, meals out and selfies, remembering all of those happy, relaxed days where we could just prioritise each other. If I’m lucky enough to live to be an old lady, I know I will never, ever regret going on holiday.

My love for holidays started in childhood. I remember my parents lifting my sister and I out of our beds in the early hours of the morning, bundling us into the back of the car where we’d cuddle up in blankets and fall back to sleep for the remainder of the journey. We’d awake to the sunny streets of Devon and the beach on the horizon, my parents playing Dire Straits on the tape player. It was so exciting.

I’d spend hours making new friends on the playground of the caravan park, splashing in the pool, or dancing away in the family disco where I’d run back every now and then for a sip of pineapple juice and a handful of Skips. The smell of warm summer nights, BBQs and tarpaulin still fills me with nostalgia for those days.

As a grown up, I’ve been fortunate enough to go on some wonderful holidays, but I never really got that childhood magic back until my honeymoon to Jamaica in 2015. Before that, I’d always been too anxious to be away from work, unable to relax and really get into the holiday swing. But as I’ve got older, I’ve got better at leaving reality behind – partly, of course, because I now work for myself. There's no horrible boss to dread returning to, or office politics to worry about.

So, in need of our next fix, we went on a short family break to Mallorca last week. We were craving sunshine and time away from London to blow away the cobwebs and celebrate surviving another term of primary school.  (For my new readers, my eldest son started in September and it's been quite the transition).

The flight was pretty calm as both of our boys slept most of the way, but once we’d arrived in Spain things got a bit stressful. We spent far too long trying to install the car seat in our rental car, and the kids were getting restless. We forgot to give our eldest son his travel sickness tablet for the hour-long journey to our accommodation and he threw up 20 minutes into the journey (in a bag, thank God). We continued on our journey after getting him cleaned up, blaming each other for forgetting the tablet and wondering whether this was such a good idea after all.

We rented an apartment just a stones-throw from the picturesque harbour of Portocolom, which was equipped with everything we could need for our stay - plus a few additional hazards. I quickly rattled out a few strict warnings on what not to touch before our toddler pulled out the router for the internet and nearly smashed an ornament. My eldest son then very swiftly walked straight into the bi-fold doors, making his lip bleed as he did. “We do have windows in London!” I cried, as he sobbed on the floor and shouted at the windows for seemingly appearing out of nowhere.

For my youngest, who is a busy 18-month year old, there were new sliding doors to try and trap his fingers in (over and over again), showers to walk into soaking his socks through in the process, beds to fall off, and a new coffee table to stand on whenever our backs were turned. My blood pressure was rising minute by minute and I hadn't even unpacked.

But then, once we’d risk assessed the apartment and moved a bit of furniture around, we got out and about. It was here that we experienced those magic moments that make it all worth it. My sons peering wide-eyed at the live lobsters and fish in Palma’s bustling food market; their squeals of delight as they ran bare-bottomed in and out of the slightly too cold ocean; and our fits of giggles as our four-year old fell off his high-legged stool in the very swanky El Camino tapas restaurant (not once but twice) before being told off by the posh English owner for being slightly too loud about the octopus.

After a lovely few days of sightseeing, walking in the countryside, and blowing off steam on the beach, we spent our last night in a no-frills Chinese restaurant. It was friendly and informal and just what we wanted. We’d had our fill of nice restaurants that made us feel tense, and just wanted to eat and go before our early flight the next morning.

We chatted about our favourite parts of the holiday and looked over some of the photos we’d taken while wolfing down steaming dumplings and noodles. We ended the evening with a blurry selfie that none of the children were looking in the right direction for, and went home feeling happy that no one had had a tantrum.

“Have you found this holiday too stressful?” I asked my husband as we drove back to the apartment.

“It’s been worth it, as always,” he replied. “But slightly exhausting. I could do with another holiday".

“I think next time we should find somewhere to stay that has a kids’ club,” I replied.

“AGREED,” my husband said. “We definitely need a kids’ club!”.

As a friend of mine once said, travelling with children is always hard but very nearly always worth it.

Until next time,

Cat x

P.s A few weeks ago I sat down to chat to the lovely Ella Delancey Jones for her podcast You, Still. We talked about how I make freelancing work with two small children, finding the balance and the pros and cons of flexible working. You can listen here.