The "perfect" family vacation.

Well, define perfect.

Attempting to get a ‘nice’ photo.

It started with packing everything we need and everything I think we’ll need. I no longer throw in a bikini and a pair of denim cut-offs (I haven’t worn cut-offs since before I was pregnant and when I had the legs for them). Now, packing feels more like a game of skill. I create extensive lists for myself and my son. Outfits that we will and probably won’t wear. Outfits for the ‘what if’ moments, ‘just in case’ emergencies, poolside outfits, dinner outfits, gym outfits (not that I’ll go), all of which now are not thrown in but carefully folded into packing cubes a la Mary Kondo. The packing cubes are now essential. A possibly sad but very true statement that tells me I’ve now entered the next era of my life. Varying in size like babushka-dolls, I stack them up and place them into our suitcases like a game of Tetris.

My husband is carefree as he throws in three pairs of board-shorts, two linen shirts, his surfboard, and a few singlets. He needn’t worry about toothpaste or Panadol or kids Panadol, bandaids, a collection of sunscreens, swimming goggles, hats, monster trucks, colouring books and crayons, mini packets of pretzels and veggie straws (for our fussy eater) or all the other bits and pieces required for a vacation with kids. He did, however, book the trip. I said when, where, and what hotel, and he locked it in. He is an A-type. He likes to take control and feel in control, and quite frankly, I’m happy about this. It’s like our gender roles were reversed for a juncture, at least. 

The first glitch happened at the airport. My husband had booked everything under my married name, yet my passport still had my maiden name. We had not been overseas since our honeymoon five years ago, so this had not even entered our minds. An innocent mistake that cost us $50 plus $24.95 for a Ladybird kids neck pillow that I bought Fred to keep him occupied for the 2 hours we stood at the check-in desks trying to call the travel company we had booked through (who, as it turns out do not offer 24hour assistance). Finally, the supervisor altered our booking - declaring this is something she doesn’t like to do and isn’t quite “protocol”. Something that took a total of 1 minute 53 seconds to edit and reprint our boarding passes. I did not get to shop duty-free like I had planned as we were now darting through the airport, aware our flight was now on final call. We did make it, and as soon as we felt the shift in altitude, our cortisol levels also shifted. This mishap would not ruin our mood, and it didn’t. We were on our way.

I look around and notice our flight is full of families with kids ranging from teenagers to babies fresh out of the womb. My family did not go overseas when I was a child. In fact, I never even set foot on a plane until I was around 18 years old and could pay my own way. I do have fond memories of road trips to visit my aunty in Shoal Bay (about 3 hours north of Sydney for anyone unfamiliar with the New South Wales East Coast). But there was one family holiday that I got left behind. It was a family holiday to Queensland that my parents took both my older sisters on. My sisters were both in primary school at this point and I was barely two years old. This has become a running joke within my family as I call my parents “awful” for “abandoning” me with my Nan, who spoilt me silly. I do not remember this, but I like to pretend I do. It riles my mum up. The truth is, since becoming a parent, I genuinely understand why – they were going to theme parks and other activities that an 18-month-old would not have appreciated nor would have sat still for. Not to mention all that is required to pack for a weekend away. Now, here Freddie was, four years old, on an aeroplane to Fiji. Lucky him, I thought, and lucky us.

“Can I have the iPad?” Are the first words I hear as we take off. As soon as we are in the air, we pay $24.95 for the Wi-Fi put on Bluey and Freddie’s noise-cancelling headphones. He is happy. As am I. I tune into Britney’s audiobook (recommend). It is a rarity for all three of us to have the luxury of tuning out. The iPad is typically kept at the office. My husband and I made a conscious decision not to bring it home or to give Freddie our phones unless it’s to listen to music, not to watch strange YouTube videos of the hands of a grown man filming himself playing with Paw Patrol figurines (which he did watch on the iPad in the hotel room) because once we crack, it’s all over. I mention this about the iPad not because I give a shit if others allow their kids to use devices but for context. This was a special holiday treat for him, and after a week in Fiji of letting him have iPad time daily, I can certainly see the appeal and how addictive it is for both kids and parents of kids who will stare at a device until the end of time. No longer is it difficult to get them to sit still in a confined space like an aeroplane or not to continually whine while out to dinner. Colouring-in and matchbox cars can only entertain for so long. YouTube Kids, however, is endless. It is a parenting instrument that, like anything else, has its pros and cons, and it sure came in handy for us.

Observing strangers is one of my favourite pastimes, and observing strangers on vacation is even more fascinating. I often wonder what people think when they watch our family, not in a judgemental way but more out of curiosity. One couple confessed they thought we were European and were trying to listen if we were speaking a language other than English, "You know, because you and your husband are both so tanned". I guess the quarter of Italian I get from my grandfather does present itself once the sun touches my skin. We encountered a few who challenged, “Just the one?” and probed whether we would have another child while also trying to pinpoint why we hadn’t yet. The sentiment was a well-meaning attempt to find a common ground. I don't mind so much anymore. I evade the interrogation, joke about not sleeping for the first three years of our son’s life (hilarious!) and change the subject. 

I supervised as Freddie swam up to a little girl named Charlotte, who he then coached through her first duck dive – being a spectator of his kindness is one of the things I love the most about being a mum, Freddie’s mum. I began chatting with Charlotte’s mother, who seemed weary and slightly stressed as she wrangled her one-year-old son and who disclosed she was “hanging out for 3pm when the nanny would take over.” Who could blame her? It was her holiday too. Another friend he made was a boy named William. He was also four and loved superheroes. Will bumped his head about 30 minutes after they began playing and I overhead Freddie say to him “How’s your head? You were very Brave.” They were instant friends and Will’s parents were great fun too.

Another couple tried not to chuckle as they witnessed Freddie’s poolside meltdowns and later shared antidotes of holidays with their own children, who have now grown and choose not to vacation with their parents. “We’ve been through all of that.” They laughed. We did, too. What can you do when your child shouts, “Dad is being annoying to me!” When all Dad has done is simply exist. He was tired. Very tired. We had been to Malamala Beach Club the day prior. It was a day that Danny (my husband) and I declared the best day we have had in 4 years of parenting. He snorkelled and took underwater photos with Fred. I dipped in and out of the pool and ocean. We enjoyed cocktails served in coconuts, ice blocks, and more pool time. We collected shells and swam until our fingers and toes crinkled. It was as perfect as my Instagram made it out to be, and my little fish fell asleep on my lap the entire way back to the hotel. This alone felt like a unicorn moment.

Dinner time was usually when the wheels fell off, so I packed every distraction I could into my large Raffia tote bag – crayons, Spiderman colouring books, monster trucks, scratch-it books and the card game Spot It that we got free in a Happy Meal (an excellent game actually). The first night, after swimming in the pool all afternoon and swallowing what I can only assume to be 5 litres of pool water, there was an accident that leaked all the way through. But before that accident, there was another accident in which I had accidentally forgotten to bring a spare pair of pants for Freddie. So, I did what I could. I cleaned him up, rinsed the dirty duds and remained upbeat as I pulled Freddie’s (fortunately) oversized tee over his bits and carried him on my hip back out to where Danny was peacefully sitting. 

“There’s been an incident and you need to run back and grab some more pants for Fred.” I explained. 

“What’s he wearing now?” Danny asked. 

“Nothing.” I said.

“Nothing?” He questioned.

“Nothing. And here, take these.” I said, handing him the soiled clothes. 

I have come to realise that if I remain calm, they do too. And I had remained calm, Danny understood the assignment, and he, too, kept his cool. This meant Fred stayed in a state of equilibrium while he sat on my lap, colouring in the kid’s menu with the broken crayons the waitress had given him. He was utterly unfazed by the fact he was completely nude from the waist down in a busy restaurant. Danny sprinted to our room, grabbed two pairs of shorts and two pairs of undies (nothing was being left to chance this time), and returned before our meals arrived. From then on, I carried multiple pairs of spare shorts and underwear, and thankfully I did as this occurred a couple more times. Ha. Lesson learnt.

To me, we had the perfect family holiday, which seems like an audacious statement from someone who spent more time cleaning the aftermath of multiple spontaneous poos than her son spent in kids’ club (a total of two hours) but that is precisely why I can say this is as perfect as it gets. Perfect anything becomes increasingly unattainable, especially in parenthood. The good news is conceivably, there’s a P.G. version most of us ran straight past, trying to achieve pre-kid perfection in post-kid times. The P.G. version of perfect is not technically flawless at all but instead a Parental-Guided definition where just as sunshine and rain co-exist, so do pleasure and parenthood. We define what is perfect, and when we allow ourselves to be open to a much more plausible version, we are saying yes to joy, fun, and laughter. So, was our vacation perfect? Definitely not. But was it P.G. perfect? Absolutely. Final calls, packing cubes, annoying dads, impromptu poos and all!