Dear Mummy and Daddy,
This letter is a little bit on the late side. (Try 20 odd years). But I feel I owe you a sincere apology and a gratitude of thanks.
First, let me apologize for the many, many times on holiday when I, along with my brother, harangued you about the weather over which you had no control and whined endlessly about wanting to go to the beach, and when can we go to the beach, we want to go to the beeeeeach. it's not that cold, really... When's it going to stop RAINING?????
I commend you for finding activities for us to do despite the weather and our moaning, and always, always having swimsuits, towels, and buckets-and-spades at the ready in the back of the car at the mere offchance that the weather would turn nice. Thank you for listening when, on the way to some maritime museum, botanical gardens, or donkey sanctuary, we would scream from the backseat of the car "I can see a bit of blue in the sky, OVER THERE OVER THERE OVER THERE OVER THERE... MummyMummyMummyMummyMummy..." and then relentlessly chasing that bit of blue on the offchance it signalled a patch of sunny BEACH.
Most of all, I commend you for doing this in England, where the summer is fickle, the water fucking freezing, and the 1970s roadside facilities much to be desired...
All my Luv,
Yep, we're back. And we had a fabulous time. But let me tell you, the term "vacation" is highly contestable when time away with small kids is concerned. And it is that revelation that triggered many a flashback to my childhood, flashbacks mainly characterized by the realization that my parents were fucking saints to take us anywhere at all, and dear lord was I was a big fucking royal pain in the arse. I think my parents can fondly remember one very wet holiday in Cornwall where I spent the majority of the time glowering in the backseat of the car, endlessly listening to my Susan Vega tape on my walkman (for me, wet Cornish countryside will forever have "Marlene on the Wall" as its soundtrack).
Compared to this, my Boyo was a saintly little trooper. Thanks to the lord that Elk Farms have massive appeal at this age. (Yes, that's right. An Elk Farm. Yeah. Husband had same reaction, but he now bows before my find-meaningful-activities-for-your-preschooler parenting ability. So there). But Boyo's only approaching 4, so there's time yet. I wonder if the one I am gestating will be the surly teenage girl I always dreamed of...