Leaving the kids at home
My favourite monument in Istanbul is the Hagia Sophia. The minute we walked into the dim expanse of the church-turned-mosque-turnedsecular-tourist-attraction, the atmosphere gripped me. I remember thinking, this place holds the weight of history.
One of the walls had Viking graffiti. There were faded paintings of the Virgin Mary, and giant medallions inscribed with the words “Mohammad” and “God” hanging near the altar. When we walked out hours later, my husband and I were quiet. I felt contemplative, and a little bit sad.
That entire experience would have been impossible if our kids had been with us.
My two sons (7 and 5 at the time) would be bored after five minutes. Instead of soaking up history, they would have run around like hooligans, because that’s what little kids do in wide open spaces. They would have complained of hunger and then demanded plain cheese pizza. They would have asked embarrassing questions like, “Why is this place so dirty?”
So here it is, my guilty little secret: I don’t like travelling with my kids. There. I said it. That felt quite good. In fact, I’ve never enjoyed travelling with my kids.
I know! I’m terrible! It’s not them, it’s me.
My own parents never took a vacation without family. Usually they’d invite my grandmother, aunts, uncles and a few cousins along, too. Half the time the family caravan would leave town with the sole purpose of visiting family in another city!
Such is the life of immigrants. Always wondering about family “back home” and saving up money for expensive flights and mountains of gifts for the trips to India, Pakistan or wherever.
For me, the point of vacations is to get away from family, not strap them into airplane seats and haul their whining, screen-addicted, if-it’s-not-cheese-pizza-I-won’t-eatit selves with me. I’m fortunate to have parents and in-laws who are delighted to watch my kids for a night or seven. Right, Mom?
My husband and I started out small. One night away to celebrate our anniversary in Niagara. The next year, two nights at the Stratford Festival to check out a play.
For our tenth wedding anniversary we embraced our inner daredevils and flew to Turkey for a week. The world kept turning.
The following year was Paris for six days.
New York City for four days the year after that.
I know parental guilt runs deep. I have to fight it even as we screech down my parents’ driveway throwing stuffed animals out the window and yelling false platitudes like “I miss you already! We’ll Skype every hour! I’ll buy you something nice!”
But I’m a realist. My kids are just not ready for the museum-filled backpacking trips I dream about, and I don’t want to wait until they graduate from university to travel.
If you can tamp down the guilt, and are lucky enough to have reliable babysitters, adult-only escapes offer a lot of perks. For one, everything is cheaper when you travel for two. Also, it’s all about you, which is a strange and uncommon experience for parents. I still dream about the almond croissant I ate at Laduree, the banana pudding at Magnolia Bakery. I wouldn’t have bothered if my kids were around (nut allergy and banana aversion). Finishing a conversation with my husband is always nice. So is exploring a new city together.
I shouldn’t complain. My kids are great during family vacations. They were angels during a Disney cruise, various road trips, cottaging and all-inclusives.
They’re also growing up. I’m hopeful that sometime in the near future, the thought of visiting an art gallery will not fill their eyes with the tears of the damned.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to sneak in the occasional kid-free adventure.
And in about 20 years, I’ll pay it forward. I can’t wait to watch my sons run down my driveway, throwing hover-toys and empty promises at their own kids, before teleporting to the Louvre.