Anyway, as you know my vow has always been to document the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the 'I've-Watched-So-Much-Twatty-Paw-Patrol-I-Might-Kill-Someone' truth. So as we
Well here's the thing. The holiday warts were much less warty (totally not talking about a nasty STI here, just to be clear). It's true I've given the virtual Screw You to 'Supermum' many times before and I stand by that gesture (Supermum is not a real person, she's a mythical beast much like Ruth from Shelly Parkinson's daughter's comprehension homework). However, this weekend I came the closest I probably ever have to dabbling in Supermumdom.
Not outwardly, I don't suppose. Supermum would never have rewarded her child's shitty behaviour by giving him a Twister.
Supermum would never have said, "Oh you don't need to buy a poncho my darling they're just trying to rip us off!" as her unsuspecting three year old (and husband) set off on the log flume only to return five minutes later soaked to their underpants.
Supermum would never have forgotten to pack her son's bedtime toy nor would she guiltily have bought an extortionately priced toy cow from a gift shop as compensation (no the original isn't a cow, I did what I could with limited resources).
Supermum would not have whispered, 'Do what you fucking like' under her breath when her son didn't want the sausage he had chosen from the chip shop and instead wanted a jumbo sausage (even though after much shouting it soon became clear that in actual fact he simply hated all sausages. Since when? Since that exact moment, obviously).
So whilst I didn't rock up to the beach with well groomed children and organic healthy snacks and a list of 101 ways to be the best fucking mum ever there was something about being on holiday that just felt great.
It felt different.
I had more patience. I swore under my breath far less. On several occasions I caught myself laughing so hard it was dangerous (maybe one time it was more than dangerous). I got stuck in. I went on water slides and built sandcastles and made hot chocolate and let Henry stay up late to look at the moon.
So if you want to know if I'd recommend squeezing small people and luggage into a car to embark on a mini-break adventure then absolutely I would.
Was it easy? No, but somehow it felt easier than being at home.
Was it relaxing? No. (I optimistically packed not one but TWO books for a three night break. I also packed running trainers. I read five pages of one book and I didn't go for a run, I watched the X Factor with a beer instead).
Was it worth it? Yes. Truly, it was worth it. For once the Scales of Parenthood Woe were tipped in my favour and I've come home feeling a bit bloody fantastic. I might even do some crafty shit tomorrow (just kidding, unless putting Mister Maker on counts as craft time).
My best friend described holidaying with kids as 'Same Shit, Different Location' and she wasn't wrong. Yet somehow I felt more positive about the shit. I had more shit-fighting motivation in my locker and with it came fun and laughter and memories.
After all, memories aren't solely about the glossy stuff, are they? In fifteen years when I sob nostalgically as Henry heads off to University or wherever I'll probably say, "Do you remember that summer when you were little and we took you and your brother to Cornwall and drank hot chocolate under the moon and went on water slides but then fell out because you were being a total wanker about a chip shop sausage?"
I'll remember that I found having small kids unbelievably rewarding and totally bloody impossible all at the same time; it's only natural that my holiday memories will reflect that too.
The Unmumsy Mum
Trevella Park, Crantock
We stayed at Trevella Park and whilst this is not an official review post our caravan was just the ticket (and just down the road from the best beach I have ever been to). I was very sad to leave.