I’m exhausted from holiday admin and my husband does nothing to help
His sun hat atop his head, a cold beer nearby and sun lounger reclined, my husband wonders which paperback to thumb through next. He is fully settled into holiday mode.
Meanwhile I’m still frazzled from being passport minder, clock watcher, navigator in chief, packer and prepper. It’s often said that winding down once on holiday is tricky. And I bet it’s generally women who have this problem.
Don’t get me wrong: I feel very fortunate to get away to a warmer country with a pool or a beach nearby. I look forward to a fortnight with my family without work, school, endless sports clubs, and piles of washing to contend with. However, the level of work and thinking to actually arrive at our destination, with everything that everybody needs, is huge – and I take it on single-handedly.
Left to my husband, we’d be trawling travel agents’ windows looking for ‘departing tomorrow!’ posters or spending our precious fortnight at home. So, I take organising the destination on the chin. Researching what we can afford, ascertaining what will be popular with us all and scouring long-range weather reports.
Booking the trip is arduous in itself – that’s before anyone has asked for an ice cream, needed a travel adaptor, or argued over bedroom arrangements. Lining up villas with flights, comparing scores on Tripadvisor and working out which airport will give us the easiest departure times is a full-time logistics job.
Once the holiday is booked, paid for and set in booking confirmation stone, the pressure isn’t off, either. Not that my other half can relate. He’ll wave his hand casually, saying, “It’s ages away, we don’t need to think about that yet,” if I mention car hire or airport transfers.
Kids are finishing the summer term with the usual carousel of celebration evenings, concerts, sports days and high and low emotion. I’m scrambling madly to clear my desk at work in order to take some precious time off, but the holiday prep is another chore entirely, one that my husband is oblivious to.
If it wasn’t enough to be solely responsible for booking the family holiday, I’m also in charge of sorting euros, getting the pets looked after, cancelling newspapers, bribing neighbours to water the plants then ensuring we don’t return to a fridge containing enough mould to develop a new strain of penicillin. There are swimsuits to buy, sun cream stocks to replenish, antihistamines and bug repellent to pack. Then the sudden pre-holiday thoughts that strike, usually at 4am: Have I organised airport parking? Did I confirm the check-out time?
If any of this was noticed or acknowledged by my husband, it wouldn’t rankle as much. For him, it’s a case of packing his wash bag (I think he thinks he is doing me a favour) then selecting a new book at the airport while I’m the one holding the passports and glancing anxiously at the departures board for our gate number.
He scoffs at the luggage we tow – “Do we really need all that?” – and I fume inwardly knowing he has no clue about how much space swimming vests, sun cream and beach towels all take up. Never mind the snacks, spare clothes and pool inflatables the children will clamour for.
My mantra is, ‘it will all be worth it in the end’ but once I collapse on a sunbed, I find it impossible to unwind instantly. Perhaps, once I’ve policed sun cream application, ensured that everyone is having fun and located the missing sunhats, I can channel my husband who’s saying, from behind his novel, “Just relax, we’re supposed to be on holiday!”
