Mum's Holiday Handbag

(The Realities of Holidays With Children)

Image by Author - Mum Carries Her Holiday Handbag for BeReal

“Can I put this in your bag?”. It’s nice to be asked, but it’s rare. “Where’s the water?” I gasp desperately, at the top of a steep hill. I’ve walked for miles and still there is no sign of the Alhambra anywhere behind the trees. “It’s in your bag,” a little voice replies. I’ve been carrying it myself, all two litres of it. It is 42 degrees in the shade. The holiday handbag has no zip, no clip or clasp. It’s large and canvas and available. It’s easy to slip items in without me noticing. It is a free-for-all. As I leave our accommodation each morning, filled with a lightness, a rising hope and anticipation about the new experiences ahead, I suddenly start to get progressively heavier. Essentials are being gradually added to my holiday handbag - sun cream, insect repellent, the guidebook, passports, chafing gel. I used to take sole responsibility for the nappies, bibs, Tommee Tippee cups. Now it’s five mobiles, lip balms and a charger. Someone is always rummaging in it, yanking me backwards to access a device urgently to take their BeReal or send a Snapchat. I transported two enormous Spanish apples from Seville to Cordoba to Granada just in case anyone happened to be peckish. Yes, they were repeatedly famished, but no-one eats fruit on holiday. “I can’t carry this,” my youngest daughter says as she hands me an unopened can of Sprite. “I’ll just put these in here in case we need them later,” my husband says as he brandishes three empty plastic bottles.

It's on holiday that I notice it most, how weighed down I am with everyone else’s stuff, how overloaded I am with facilitating and managing their daily schedules. I have the physical scars, welts across my back, dents in my shoulders. I have the mental challenge of ensuring everyone has a good time. I photograph the memories that we will reminisce over in years to come yet I will be strangely absent from them. I realise nothing is truly mine when my husband borrows one of my AirPods to listen to an audio guide. “Right or left ear?” I ask.

Image by Author - Imprinted By The Holiday Handbag

I see them all wandering with their hands free, unencumbered, waiting to be informed about what’s happening next. What does that freedom feel like? I want to touch it. “I’m not helping anyone pack this year,” I announced confidently in June. It had been three years since our last proper summer break. Things had changed, I had changed. Gone were the days of laying out four small piles of t-shirts and shorts, of sourcing all-in-one anti-UV swimsuits, of washing, ironing, preparing weeks in advance. Everyone was thirty-six months bigger. My baby was turning twelve. I debated whether we needed an extra carry-on for sanitary pads and contact lenses. I held firm on not checking what anyone was bringing.

“Your toothpaste tastes horrible,” said Ella as she emerged from the hotel bathroom with my enamel-protecting whitening serum. “Oh, and I need a deodorant, a toothbrush and a razor”. Alice was unpacking three wash bags. There was one for her 500ml shampoo and conditioner, another for her make-up, the third for her skincare regime. I questioned whether Lucy would require her supply of hoodies and jogging bottoms during a heatwave. Lydia had commandeered an entire suitcase for herself. It was beautiful - an outfit for every occasion, a special dress to wear on her birthday, hair straighteners, an eye mask. She’d even brought pyjamas. But, it was a poor success rate – only 25% of my children had considered changing their clothes for bed. No-one ever seemed to have clean pants. I was aware that I had re-located to a far-away place, a vibrant, stimulating culture, a world where the sun shone, the sky was stunningly blue. I wanted to stare at it all, soak it in, yet all I could think about was laundry. “Will these dry overnight?” I wondered as I searched for a radiator.

“Feel free to thank me anytime,” I said yet again as we all sat down to eat dinner in a restaurant I had booked after many late nights analysing TripAdvisor reviews. My inbox was jam-packed with hotel confirmations, train tickets, QR codes, instructions about meeting points for English-speaking tours, maps, locations, reminders about activities I hoped they would never forget. But no matter how much I wanted them to gaze in awe and wonder at a UNESCO World Heritage site, they might only get a chance to see once in their lifetimes, I only ever saw joy transform their faces when their father said those few magic words, “is it time for a Fanta?¹”.  

As they behave like they have been released from captivity, quenching their thirst with fizzy orange bubbles they could easily drink at home, I am able to set my holiday handbag down under the table. I am imprinted with its straps. A weight is momentarily lifted off me. I am temporarily reprieved from the emotional and psychological baggage of taking teenagers on holiday. For a few minutes, the bickering stops, no-one accuses anyone else of any specific crimes - “She’s giving me dirty looks”, “She took my socks”, “She’s reading the same book as me”, “She’s in my personal space“. “She sniffed me” will always be my favourite.

As we get up to leave, I hoist my holiday handbag back on to my shoulder. A child looms in front of me. She has acquired some souvenirs, coasters for her nana, keyrings for her friends. “Can I put these in your bag?”. “No,” I say, “there’s no room in my bag anymore,” as I step out into the sunshine, take a deep breath and admire the view.

1. This also means beer for the adults.