The kids were hoping for Center Parcs this half-term.
Yes, it’s over-priced; and yes, last time we went, I had a near-death experience with an overweight stranger halfway down the Tropical Cyclone. But for a safe and easy British holiday, with every middle-class reassurance you could hope for, it’s a winner.
This year, however, it was not to be. Our instinctively cautious approach to parenting – and to public health crises – was never easily going to square with a week in a holiday village. And for all the vaccine success, I felt sure it was only a matter of time before Center Parcs Woburn joined Brazil on the government’s Covid red list. And don’t get me started on the prospect of a Center Parcs Elveden Forest variant.
No, we’re waiting this bastard pandemic out a bit longer yet. A week in a remote Lake District cottage in August will do the job nicely, thank you very much. I’ll be fully jabbed by then; and I might even consider removing my face mask when I get to the top of Striding Edge.
None of this is to say that the present half-term holiday has been a non-event, however. For the children, it has indeed meant a vacation, as we packed them off to stay with my parents for most of the week. And since my brother is also living there temporarily, while he waits to complete on a house move, I could not be the kids’ chaperone, as I often have been in the past.
Consequently, their trip also resulted in a holiday of sorts for the stay-at-homes, and my wife and I talked gleefully of possible plans as the break approached. With the weather set fair, there were restaurant dinners to be eaten, a discussion of drinks out, and romantic walks mapped.
And sure enough, we did manage a short ramble in a wood and a traipse along the banks of the canal. We also took pleasure in not having to harass the children into doing homework, and not cooking three separate meals in the evening.
On Monday I spent an undisturbed hour or so tidying the garden, and on Wednesday I’d made a cake by the time 9am chimed. I’ve not had to play (and lose) incessant games of football, while my wife has not once been badgered into Monopoly or had to plait a pigtail. I have enjoyed a soak in bath water unsullied by a boy’s previous use, without feeling environmental guilt.
What’s more, we have been able to take real pleasure in daily phone calls with our children, who have so clearly been having a wonderful time with grandparents they adore. Our daughter has been delighted to find the playground in my folks’ village has had an upgrade, and my son has been playing so much cricket in the garden that by Thursday he’d racked up 312 runs for the loss of nine wickets against my dad.
He also somehow managed to wangle three quid off my mum for helping with the gardening, which isn’t bad for a lad whose preferred horticultural activity is digging holes in the front hedge, then filling them with mud.
And yet for all that a bit of peace is welcome, we’ve not managed to make the most of it. For one thing, all that tends to happen is that my wife and I spend the time we’d normally have taken on the school run or the bedtime routine, catching up on work tasks. Nice ideas about a meal out, or a drink in a pub have come to naught; and I’ve had a mild bout of insomnia, presumably because I’m not bowling 15 overs at my son in his bedroom every evening. I tried to answer Alexa’s Question of the Day, but it’s not the same when my daughter’s not here.
So, let’s ignore the fact that by the time you read this, the kids will be with us once again, full of the usual boundless energy and emotion; and I’ll be wondering how to maintain my sanity and can my swearing. Let’s put aside too the likelihood that they’ll have spent more time looking at screens since their return than talking to their parents.
Much better to hold onto the memory that while they might have spent a week missing Center Parcs, I’ve spent it missing the little blighters; and feeling desperate to have them back.
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