‘Let’s go away’, I said. ‘It’ll be fun’, I said.
Reader, it was fun, mostly. But the first 72 hours were about as ridiculous as they could be.
Saturday night at home: I was woken up by a vomiting boy at around 1am. Neither he nor I got much sleep after that, so copious was the vomit. I called 111 in the middle of the night, I changed bedding many times and eventually, he and I sat under blankets in the living room until everyone else got up.
Sunday: We were sensible, knowing we were meant to be going on holiday the next morning, we took him to the GP (thank you, NHS) who confirmed that it was just a virus and we should be fine to fly the next day. By lunch he had perked up and was back to his usual chirpy self. Yay!
We drove to the airport hotel, him clutching a sick bucket (his sister too but that’s because she’s regularly sick in the car) with no incidents. He was tired but seemed fine. We went down to the hotel restaurant and before we could even look at a menu, our small boy erupted, volcano like, spewing vomit everywhere. Needless to say the people at the next table moved pretty sharpish! We opted then to have supper in our room in case it happened again. Lucky old me got to clear up the vomity table, using the tea towels and tiny paper bags the staff had given me.
I then left Col to order food while I took the boy to the room to clean him up. I tied up his sicky clothes in a bag and we put them in the car along side his sister’s urine soaked clothes from where she had weed in the car whilst asleep earlier. Yes, our car does smell lovely, you’re entirely right.
The small boy ate supper, railing at us for not letting him eat a pizza, proclaiming that he was perfectly well and should be allowed to eat whatever he wanted, and then went to bed. He fell asleep immediately unlike his small sister who claimed not to be tired. After stories and cuddles she lay in her bed and annoyed us all by playing with the curtains until she, too, finally passed out.
Monday: No more vomit! Hurrah. We could still go on holiday. From this point, everything went pretty well. We only had to remove 2kgs from our luggage when Ryan Air decided the bag was slightly too heavy and then we were free to fly, all the while holding a sick bucket near the boy.
Thankfully that was the end of the virus. We arrived in Athens, dumped our bags at the hotel and headed straight out to see the Acropolis. We promised the kids they could swim in the hotel pool the moment we got back, because, despite being desperate to see Athens’ main attraction, they still wanted to go swimming more. This was not a success. By the time we got to the Acropolis it was almost closing time. We didn’t feel that forty euros for forty minutes was a good use of our money so had a quick climb over the rocks there, examined a few souvenirs (my kids, acquisitive, noooo) and headed home for the promised swim. Except, the pool shut two minutes before we got there. Oh good, two tired children who had just been made to walk around Athens for a closed attraction only to be told the pool was closed too. Perfect.
Tuesday: We made it to the port with very little effort. Phew. Then I was told I was a bad mother by a woman who wanted to me to give our son boiled sweets to bribe him to stop stropping. She didn’t like my refusal.Lucky I’m strong and know I’m not a bad mum or that could have really broken me. After dealing with our three year old’s tantrum (she rarely has a strop but this was a good ‘un) we went to a delicatessen, having just learned about the island’s pistachio fame. We took our eyes off the five year old for approximately three seconds. Of course this was long enough for him to wreak havoc by casually turning the wheel on the coffee bean dispenser situated just at the right height for little boys. Coffee beans went skidding across the floor while the assistant leaped to shove her hands under to catch the still falling beans.
We apologised, offered to pay, apologised some more, and legged it before he could do any more damage.
Ah, holidays. At least it was sunny.