THIS LIFE: BY JO SPAIN
IT’S LATE IN THE EVENING. I have two large suitcases open in front of me, we have an early flight and I’m rolling clothes and packing like a woman on a topsecret Navy Seal mission. On the bed, I have a collection of small shorts, T-shirts, socks, undies, swimwear, hoodies for cool nights, pyjamas, all x4; nappies, wipes, shampoo, medicine, plasters, the various necessities for a two-week holiday with kids in sunny Spain.
I also have four smaller bags for the plane, filled with spare clothes, books, tabs, games, sweets, every manner of entertainment, all of which I’ve recently bought. Then there are my own clothes. The passports, the boarding passes, essentials. I’m packing for me and four children. Every five minutes a little voice pipes up. ‘Should I bring this? Do you think I’ll need jeans? A jumper? Is this enough, would you say?’
No. It’s not one of the children doing the asking. It’s the hubby.
He’s packing for himself. But he needs my help. It’s like, before we met, I’m not sure he ever left the country. Or shopped. Or got dressed. Or…. got up.
This scene took place over the summer and, in meltdown mode, I took to Twitter and posted that if my beloved asked me one more time what to bring, while I was packing for everybody else, my next novel would be based on a true crime and written from inside a prison cell. Within a couple of hours I’d had over a thousand retweets and multiple hilarious replies from fellow mammies, and even some hubbies getting in on the fun. The mammies were offering, en masse, to provide alibis if I did snap and kill him. Kris Kringle didn’t have as much support in Miracle on 34th Street.
The daddies were pointing out the hubby had done a marvellous job of gathering together his portable coffee maker, shaving equipment and suncream, and I should give him a break. A mutual male pal tweeted ‘Free the Spain One’. Comedian.
Now, I qualify what is to follow with the knowledge that there are men out there who are super prepared for holidays and on top of all the organising. And, this niggle aside, my lovely hubby is my best friend, the best dad in the world, an absolute superstar in almost every respect. He’s also home more than me and does all our school runs, most of the grocery shopping, and generally keeps the kids clean and alive. We’re very happily married!
But, when it comes to leaving the country, my husband, a grown man of 51 years, regresses to teenager before I can say ‘Will you get the suitcases out of the attic?’ I spend months Googling airfares/ ferry deals and travel destinations. I check work dates and school holidays and I plan. I consult him, which usually sends him on a one-man mission to TripAdvisor to ascertain every single thing about any given country/mobile home/hotel. The man lives to read reviews. He’s still reading while I’m booking.
Holiday decided, my thoughts turn to the wardrobe. As I’m the one who empties and restocks the kids’ drawers every year (they never stop growing) I usually have a sense of what’s needed for the beach, pool, weather requirements. So, I’m off to the shops with a very large basket, making sure they’ve all the right sizes, everything’s passed down that can be, they’re all in sandals again, etc.
And then, as soon as I can, I start to pack – because, as every parent knows, getting four kids out of the country is not as easy as lobbing a passport, a toothbrush, clean knickers and some euro in your bag and off you pop. It’s a logistical operation of epic proportions.
While all this is going on, hubby is either watching football/Googling somewhere we’re not travelling/cutting the grass/chatting to the neighbours/ thinking about dinner/engaged in other non-holiday-related activity. Then, the day before, he’ll open his suitcase. He’ll summon me and start taking clothes out of his drawers that haven’t seen the light of day since last year, and he’ll ask me what he should pack.
His packing is an event. It’s an occasion – it almost requires wine and crisps. He fizzes with excitement; he’s just short of sticking a bucket and spade in, even if we’re travelling somewhere landlocked. And then, when the taxi arrives to take us to the airport, he lifts up the other suitcases, huffs and puffs and says: ‘Jesus, what did you put in here?’ ‘Well, darling, this year it’s clothes. Next year, it will be a body.’ I joke. Next year, I’ve no doubt it will be exactly the same.
It’s okay, I forgive him by night one of the holiday and, like pregnancy and labour, I always forget the pain of the previous year’s packing and do it all again. Though, he was a bit sheepish when he saw that tweet and its likes. Ah, the power of connecting with other mammies.
Maybe next year he’ll be the one rolling up all the shorts and tee-shirts. Maybe, but unlikely. As one daddy tweeter replied, could my nerves take it if I left him in charge of packing? Probably not!
I pack early – because, as every parent knows, getting four kids out of the country is an epic logistical operation