Late last year, our gorgeous niece had a beautiful baby girl. Trying to be pragmatic, I enquired what we could get instead of the plethora of pink frilly items she was bound to receive.
I would revel in those later, but having three girls, I tried to remember the useful gifts.
Her request? For me and the family to move nearer. All very sweet but not exactly practical. Especially as they live in Northern Ireland, and we don’t.
So instead, I booked flights and an Airbnb (we do love an Airbnb) and promised we’d hop over to see them in February.
Suddenly, our trip was upon us. Along with another two storms.
Flying in the storms…
Who doesn’t want to be on a plane during a storm having your hand crushed by a teenage nervous flyer? Thank you Dudders and Eunice.
While I’ve never felt such pathetically named storms presented less of threat, I still wouldn’t choose being airborne or the Northern Irish coast as my top pick for riding them out.
This isn’t our first visit during the bleaker, wet months and, as usual, Packing Mum came out in hurricane proportions.
The mister was ill right up till we left (a common theme when we go anywhere) leaving me to conclude every relationship is made up of two types of people. An organised person and a disorganised one.
The organised one usually has NO CHOICE in the matter. How I’m not dead yet I’ll never know. Is it too late to break up?
Cancel that. I’m too exhausted from all the organising all the plans for all of us and can only imagine the amount of effort needed to dissolve a 20+ year relationship would be ginormous and I’m frankly too tired.
A favourite part of being a wife and mother for me, has been sacrificing my body, career, mental stability, and physical appearance to wait on them all hand and foot only to be sighed at when I ask them to bring through their clothes to be packed.
It’s very rewarding, let me assure you. Eldest was asked to remember a coat, boots, and her passport. THREE THINGS.
She remembered two and announced proudly the others were less vital as she had her passport! I had the last laugh when she landed in a giant Emerald Isle-sized puddle.
Maybe if they complain about the very simple two-minute task for 25 minutes instead of just getting on with it, it will go away?
Some highlights of the trip
Hasn’t worked yet but you’ve got to admire their persistence. My very helpful family devised a new strategy on this occasion: every time I ask them to do something, they suggest a different person that could do it instead. That person was me. Give. Me. Strength.
Enough grumbling and instead a few highlights from a trip full of joy, love, friends, and family.
Middle kid realising AT THE AIRPORT, her passport was seven months out of date was just precious. This, somehow, became my fault even though they’d all been howling at her kiddie photo for two whole weeks previously.
Or how about having to search FOUR FLOORS of the airport car park on our return just to find the motor.
Had I not taken note of where we’d parked?!? Silly me indeed <insert eye roll>. Thankfully biggest kid had produced an ’airport dad’ reel for TikTok starring the big man’s travelling adventures.
I had the genius idea to look back for the car park shot which revealed our level in glorious technicolour. Apparently, I’m no longer allowed to be annoyed for ‘being on her phone’ when it produces helpful results like that. <another eye roll here please>
This was my first ever completely sober trip to Ireland. It will also be my last.
The stresses of travelling with my lot just aren’t conducive to sobriety and my teenage self would never in a million years believe that in my 40s, my hands consumed more alcohol than my face does. Especially when on Irish soil.
Now safely home, I’m googling solo holidays where I can be on a beach. With a cocktail. Eating crisps. For long enough to include a week to sleep, a week where I don’t have to speak to anyone or make decisions. Somewhere I don’t have to cook/clean up after or do laundry. Suggestions. Are. Welcome.
