It was the perfect break – until…
Prague in the early February chill. At early February prices. What could be nicer? That was my thinking last November, when I booked a Mitteleuropean weekend away with my husband for his birthday.
We would leave early Saturday and return late Monday. The kids would be fine. We’d scramble the childminder, dispatch the 10-year-old to a sleepover and menacingly warn the 16-yearold not to have a party. Sorted.
I cannot lie. Our weekend was blissfully grown-up. We stayed in a glamorous boutique hotel with high ceilings and fluffy white bathrobes. We saw heart-stoppingly beautiful medieval art at the Convent of St Agnes and drank gloopy hot chocolate in Art Nouveau cafes.
We stayed up late at a jazz club. We got up early and walked through the deserted streets in the snow to the Charles Bridge.
We got drunk. Bought trinkets. Got drunk again. Ate hearty Czech food. And laughed and laughed.
More crucially, I made an executive decision not to worry. Not when the wee one wept with desolate missingness
during her sleepover. Not when the text came from our next door neighbours late one night wondering why we were noisily torturing our children. “Ooooops! We’re abroad, so sorry!” I trilled in response.
Was our teenager having a party? Nothing we could do about it. Armageddon can wait. Let’s try the blueberry beer.
Finally, on the Monday morning, came a Facetime call from the wee one, sitting disconsolately in her uniform, home alone, and wondering if she was supposed to be going to school today…?
Eeek. It turned out there was a small but significant gap in Mummy’s wraparound childcare arrangements. Cue a few hasty phone calls to the childminder and my kneesocked Macaulay Culkin was rescued and whisked off to her rightful place in Year 5 classroom.
Not ideal. But nobody was dead, and we returned to learn that self-compassion is now A Thing so we don’t need to wallow in guilt. Hurrah.
Would we do it again? Oh yes. But next time I will wrap my childcare just a little tighter.