The weekend away away

Recently my wife went on a much-needed holiday with her friends and, most importantly, no kids. A big deal for both of us because it’s the first break she’s had. It would be the longest either of us has soloed the parenting role and facing three nights and three days with a three-and-a-half-year-old and a 10-month-old I did what any sane person would do: I took the kids to see my parents. For the entire weekend. The catch? Only they live 380 kms away. 

Before we had kids you could get to my parent’s house in four hours by car, but that is a long time for a kid to be sitting in one place. Kids need toilet stops, playground stops, and food stops and suddenly four hours turns into six. Normally 50% extra time sounds like a good deal when you’re referring to a massage, but in the case of ‘time spent listening to Mr Blippi in a car’ the words ‘violation’ and ‘Geneva Convention’ get thrown around.

A road trip with children can be won or lost by the snacks. Normally we can shave off a stop if my wife sits in the back seat between the boys and just hands out food like she’s giving a sermon on the mount. Hard to do by myself – the 10-month-old baby still sits rear-facing. At best I could lob food over my shoulder or hang blueberries over him like a bird feeder baby mobile. But other than that, there’s not much opportunity for me to prepare baby formula while on the road without stopping. Can I use a pet feeder with non-fur babies?

During a stop when I told strangers I was taking the kids away on my own, and I told every stranger that would listen, I was showered with praise, and everyone was going out of their way to help. This shows how low the bar is set for dads. It makes no sense for us to get a pat on the back like this: mothers take their children out by themself all the time. It didn’t stop me from drinking deeply and greedily from the well of blessings and goodwill when I could. Until the baby started crying and then it all changed. 

The supportive atmosphere changed, and the stares of once kind strangers turned cold – it’s a different scenario when a stressed man with an unkempt beard and tracksuit pants is trying to stop two young children crying. The once complimentary praise turned into concerned questions, “did he steal those children?”

We arrived at my parents’ house without too much fuss. I jinxed myself into thinking I had this in the bag and the universe slapped me up the side of the face with a serve of hubris: the baby got sick. A sick baby is clingy, whinging, sooky, and wants their mummy. Babies want to be nursed and snuggled and daddy is a poor substitute. This is the true power of the mother: a boob can fix anything, and a baby just wants to latch on one when it sees it. Also known as, ‘The Good Life.’ Laughter isn’t the best medicine, it’s boobies. And despite my best efforts, I lack that functionality. For now. 

My wife is already thinking about her next holiday. She and her friends are talking about doing it again at roughly the same time of year. I am all for it, but it means I’ve only got a year to either produce milk or install a pet feeder in the back seat.