The Holiday From Hell

The first inkling that our holiday was not going to go well occurred the night before we left.  Charlotte, excited about visiting Opa, Omara and the beach, is still bouncing around at 10:30pm.  At eleven we’re still telling her to calm down and go to sleep and she’s still deliriously perky.  In addition to this, we haven’t really packed or prepared but we're in agreement that we’ll do it in the morning before we leave.   

The next morning the little Viking sows the seed of his own circadian dysfunction.  Normally he gets up at about 8:30 in the morning, has some breakfast and then hits the pillow at about 11.30 for a sleep.  Unfortunately on this particular day he wakes at 6:30, has his bowl of Weeties for breakfast and then gets dozy at about eight.  I have misgivings about it but it's also convenient that he'll be asleep while we pack so I put him down early and let him sleep.  

Meanwhile Charlotte has woken early (for her) and is still excited, meaning she’s had about four hours less sleep than usual.  James sleeps while we pack.  And sleeps.  And sleeps.  And sleeps.  At midday we’re done packing and he wakes up not long after that.  He is now, unfortunately, full of beans and raring to go while his sister is flagging a little.  We decide to leave immediately and resolve to let them have McDonalds for lunch on the way.

Essentially we begin our journey to Bega with two children well out of their routines and hyped up on sugar from junk food.  They proceed to behave like nervous German Shepherds with bladder control and temperament issues.  We stop often for the bathroom, there is much mediation about who gets what and the portable DVD players we’ve installed for them are nigh on useless.  Charlotte wants to change hers every five minutes and James, in his excitement at having his own personal mini-theatre with Playschool on a loop, repeatedly kicks the DVD player causing it to stop, start, rewind and crash at regular intervals.

By the time we get to Cooma I want to strangle them both.  We stop briefly for toilets and drinks.  Two minutes on from Cooma and I realise that I’ve not only chipped my windscreen, but that chip has now turned into a sizeable crack right in my line of vision, ideal for catching the sunlight and blinding me at fairly regular intervals.  We continue on to my Dad’s house.

It’s at about this point that Charles remembers that the Portacot is now at my mother-in-law’s house and not with Dad at all.  It’s 3pm.  Our only hope of containing James so he will sleep is to make it into Bega before Country Target closes and purchase a Portacot.  We make it in time and are forced to shell out $$$ for a Portacot that we’re not even sure he will fit into.  Given the (extremely) low odds that we will ever be able to use it again given our Danny DeVito sized toddler, I speculate about our chances of returning it on the way home in two days.  Charles reprimands me for being cheap and says we should give it to Kat as a baby shower gift instead.  I instantly feel better about having to buy it.

At my Dad’s house the kids unleash their combined cabin fever under the new pergola Dad has built.  He provides two wash tubs and a hose with a trickle of water, we furnish a cheese platter.  Then we sit down to watch the kids, eat the nosh and relax.  Charlotte and James proceed to alternate between wetting each other with the hose, wetting us with the hose, rolling through the fine bluestones, fighting over the hose and generally behaving so badly that we constantly have to yell, manhandle and threaten.  

Fed up with playing Water Police we plonk them down in the bath to clean them up and they immediately begin turning the bathroom into their own personal Wet ‘n Wild theme park.  When the mess is pointed out to them Charlotte promptly attempts to fix it by yanking all the towels out of the linen cupboard and throwing them down to soak up the water.

Then it’s time to set up the cot.  Despite everything we do one side simply will not lock into place.  No amount of persuasion* has the slightest impact on the wretched thing.  It remains impervious to our efforts.  My Dad proffers scissors to cut it open so we can have a look at the mechanism.  These are declined.  Instructions are read and followed.  Nada.  Finally I give up.  Charles takes over and I leave him contemplating one of the poles from the bonus bassinet thingy and a roll of packing tape.  It’s not long before he rejects these and gives up too.  

Our choices now seem to be either put our son down to sleep in a death-trap or try and get him to sleep with us.  In the double bed.  Not to mention that he has never in his tiny life deigned to fall asleep with us.  Given the options available to us the scissors, pole and packing tape start to look attractive.

Then I’m struck by inspiration and log onto the Internet on Dad’s positively ancient PC.  A quick Google search of “Dreamtime Portacot” reveals a host of negative reviews, proof that we paid about $50 more than everyone else in Australia (curse you and your over-inflation of prices Country Target) and reassurance that about 90% of complainants customers have experienced the same problem as we’re having.  Thanks to their discussion of Dreamtime-Portacot issues, it’s only two minutes later that I manage to rectify the situation.  When I inform him that I’ve fixed it, Charles gets this weird look on his face that makes me unsure whether he’s going to kiss me or kill me.

Nothing has been arranged for dinner and by 6pm the kids are getting whiny.  It is immediately obvious to me that Tamara does not want to cook.  Dad states that he flat out refuses to go out for dinner because he wants to watch the Edinborough Military Tattoo.  By 7pm I’ve had enough of the to-ing and fro-ing and so I order everyone into the car.  We head to town to the only Chinese restaurant within a 100 kilometres radius to order takeaway.  We are informed that the wait for food will be more than an hour.  

So for New Year’s Eve we wind up eating BBQ chook from Coles, pre-made Coles pasta salad and a green salad made by me.  Dad is thrilled and says, “Wow this is really good!” at least five times during the meal in an attempt to jolly Tamara and I out of our resentment at being forced to prepare a dodgy meal that is more than likely laced with salmonella on New Year’s Eve purely because he didn’t want to go out.  Charles cautiously agrees with him and receives the evil eye.

That night James refuses to sleep and screams off and on for most of the night.  By 3am we’re exhausted and fed up and we wind up cuddling him between us.  Amazingly he sleeps.  Unfortunately with two rather large adults and the little Viking there is not a spare inch of double bed available and we have to be careful not to roll over too enthusiastically lest we hit the deck.  Deep sleep is therefore not an option.  Charlotte insists on joining us at 5am, slotting herself in upside-down at the bottom of the bed – a fact I don’t discover until I accidentally kick her in the head.

On New Year’s Day itself we attempt to salvage some happy and decide to take the kids to the beach.  Thinking of the loose wedding ring that has been slipping off at inopportune times for the past six months, I warn Charles to take his jewellery off before we head down to the beach.  On the way to the beach I realise he’s ignored my advice.  Since this happens a lot and never, ever is resolved in my favour, I let it go and say nothing.

The beach is awesome.  We have a fantastic time and James in particular is beyond excited to be there.  He sits right where the waves will wash over him up to his chest and squeals in pleasure every time the water hits him.  Despite turning blue from the cold he still screams inconsolably when we decide it’s time to go.  Charlotte is not thrilled either but we still chalk it up as a success.    

As soon as we get home James goes down for his afternoon sleep.  Unfortunately he wakes up feverish, flushed, very cross and clearly sick.  Since it’s New Year’s Day, everything is closed except Coles.  And supermarkets are not allowed to sell junior paracetamol.  So we head to the Bega hospital where we get in line.  Charles sits outside with James in the cool to get his temperature down while I wait inside for us to be called. This is about the point where he realises that he’s no longer in possession of his wedding ring.  His 19^th Century antique wedding ring.  His very $$$ 19^th Century antique wedding ring.  His very $$$ 19^thCentury wedding ring that his wife warned him to remove.

He begins to look for it while I wait to see a doctor. An hour after we arrived and we’re in.  I apologise to the triage nurse for coming to hospital for such a minor reason and explain that all I need is some junior paracetamol to bring James’ temperature down.  She waves off my apology, informs me that only the doctor can provide paracetamol and indicates that it will be a three to four hour wait.  

At this point Charles decides he would rather administer a controlled dose of adult paracetamol than wait for the doctor so it’s back to Coles.  At home with the help of the Internet we quickly establish the correct dose and mix it up.  Easy.  Unfortunately James refuses to drink the stuff.  Even some grenadine does not improve the taste sufficiently for his delicate little palate.  Charles proceeds to return to the beach to look for his ring while I nurse the sick one.  

That night James wakes up at 3am again when the Panadol wears off and for the second night in a row I’m bereft of sleep while I nurse a grumpy Viking.

Having realised that my husband would live with regret forever if he didn’t do everything in his power to recover his ring** (which has gone from “she’ll be right” status to “my most treasured possession”) I managed to find a treasure hunter on the Internet complete with high-tech equipment.  I arranged for him to come down from Sydney to look for the ring and so all of 2 January is spent out looking for the bloody thing.  

After two hours crawling through the cold surf I am burned bright pink.  Charles looks all day with the treasure hunter and they get four large sinkers, two aluminium cans, a spark plug, nine bottle tops, three ring pulls and a weird square bit of metal but nothing vaguely resembling jewellery.  He is also burned even pinker than I am.  The upshot of the search for the ring is that instead of going home on 2 January we’re down the coast for one more night.  James decides he will sleep.  I ring Kat and arrange for her to feed our poor dog who is probably wondering where we are.  I also arrange a motel for our treasure hunter because I can’t live with him having an accident from fatigue on his way back to Sydney.  Unfortunately I'm so burnt that I wake up every time I roll over and my skin grinds against the sheet.


By the time we're ready to go home the crack in the windscreen has made it almost halfway across the expanse of glass.  In our panic to locate the ring, we’ve forgotten to arrange to have it fixed.  The next day, on 3 January, we start to head home but are almost halted just outside Bega by a sign warning us that there is no petrol for over 100 kilometres.  But we’re sure we saw bowsers in Bemboka, which is only 30 kilometres away, and we know we have enough petrol to get there so we continue.

Turns out we were right – we did see bowsers in Bemboka.  Positively ancient cobweb-encrusted ones out the front of the long-closed servo.  So we have to turn around and drive the 30km back to Bega where we find that premium is our only option.  We spend $$$ on fuel and then start all over again.  Since we’re returning the day before everyone has to go back to work, the roads are choked with over-enthusiastic drivers determined to make it home in roughly the same time as it would have taken them in a learjet.  Indicating appears to be optional, speed limits are more a sort of “guideline” than a hard and fast rule and apparently every cop between Bega and Canberra is either on holidays or asleep.  We personally witness four very close incidents that would have become catastrophic head-ons had other drivers not noticed and compensated for the idiocy of the morons involved***.

By the time we get home I have an amazingly intense stress headache and Charles is showing all the hallmarks of a downward depression spiral.  Previously we'd been planning more travel in the near future but now I think it will take a solid month before we’ve recovered enough to venture anywhere to do anything.

*Swearing, hitting, yanking, pleading, grunting, threatening, praying, fiddling...

** Not to mention that we would have to go look for it every single time we came down to the coast in future.  Just in case.

***More on that in the next blog post “Unfortunately You Are Not Michael Schumacher”.