“So, where are you going this summer?”
Presumably they don’t mean to shame you – they’re just not thinking. Other parents see it as small-talk, inconsequential chit chat to pass the time, rather than a question capable of inducing a full-blown existential crisis.
The presumption is that, of course, you’re going somewhere. You must be. A UK destination just about counts, as long as it’s somewhere impressive sounding and in luxurious accommodation, but is still very much a consolation prize to the expected ideal: a “proper” holiday abroad. So that when my kid goes back to school in September, and has to either talk or write about what he did over the six week break, he will have a similar story to that of all his friends. Despite the inconvenient fact that for many of us, money has never been tighter, the massive pressure to take our offspring away over the summer holidays remains unchanged.
YouGov announced in January that the cost of living came first in a poll of top issues facing the country, picked by 54 per cent of Britons. In April, 79 per cent of adults in Great Britain reported an increase in their cost of living compared with the previous month, due to food and fuel prices, among others. However, most of my son’s social circle are somehow just going away this summer, they got the hell out of Dodge for half-term too. In other words, I already feel on the back foot, like I’m letting him down. As though he is missing out, being shortchanged. The truth is that all logic and statistics and sensible, rational thought aside, I worry I’m a bad mum if I don’t – can’t – take my son abroad this year.
One of the worst things about the fetishisation of parenting that goes on nowadays is the nauseating term “making memories”. It’s a ridiculous concept, as though it’s possible to turn children’s brains on to record the special moments, back them up to the brain cloud, and then press stop when it comes to the boring or upsetting ones. If only.
But even though I can see this for the nonsense it is, it’s bizarrely still a concern. When he’s an adult and looks back on his childhood, if there aren’t sun-kissed, exotic remembrances of lazy days in far flung climes, swimming pool japes and ice-creams on sandy beaches with turquoise oceans, will he believe he was hard done by?
For the record, none of this is coming from my boy. He has never asked to go anywhere, or shown any preference for a particular location. He’s enjoyed the times we’ve been away both in this country and abroad. So who exactly am I really concerned about feeling “less than” if we stay in the UK this summer – him, or me?
Equally, deep down I’m aware the people politely inquiring about our plans to fill a conversation hole are far too busy worrying about their own lives to spend more than two milliseconds thinking about or judging ours. And I know from bitter experience that an incredible, expensive destination is absolutely no guarantee of a good holiday – I had one of the most miserable breaks of my life in the best place I’ve ever been to, the Maldives, due to the company I kept there.
When my son does mention past holidays we’ve taken, he talks about random funny things that happened, good conversations we had, silly games we played. Occurrences that transpired because we were all relaxed and together. His dad and I weren’t preoccupied with work, stressing about arrangements, or organising life and home admin; he didn’t have to go to school, or revise for a test, or make sure he wasn’t late for drama club, or knuckle down to his homework. He appreciated the little pause in the normal busy routine, a chance for all of us to catch our breath, relax, and hang out aimlessly. That’s what’s important. It’s not about where you go, but who you go with.
That sounds like the kind of sage wisdom you try to pass down to your kids if they will listen long enough, but I have a strange feeling that the person who really needs to back that sentiment up to the brain cloud isn’t my 11-year-old, it’s me.
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