Caravan of Courage

Just returned home from THE BEST weekend.

This was the equation:

Caravan + kids + beach + pals + fire pit + meat + mud + bikes + hikes + swimming + beers + dirty feet = THE BEST weekend.

We hired a rad caravan down at Skenes Creek. If you've never been to this hideaway caravan park near Apollo Bay, it's time to try it. This sensational area is like a time warp to 1986, in the best possible way.

The on site caravans with their chocked up wheels and dusty annexes are like holidays from my childhood, the beige exteriors bringing an instant feeling of calm.  The smell of charcoal and sausages bringing back memories of fortnight-long vacations in Mallacoota, Nelsons Bay, Port Stephens, Caloundra.

The sight of packs of kids racing their pushies along the track, taking a risk and smashing out metre long burn outs wearing only thongs and a pair of faded boardies. Filthy children with sand stuck between their toes, their parents sitting by the caravan stoking the fire pit, iceburg lettuce ready to fill a rissole sandwich.

No money is spent on these holidays. No TV is watched. No bedtime routine is followed. Sometimes there isn't even a shower before bed coz 'I had a shower on the beach and I've wiped my feet with a towel, mum'.

It's the best.

I love waking in the morning and watching the zombie-like parents in their checkered ill-fitting pj's (some dads just wearing their jocks) heading towards the shared toilet block, still glaring out its 1980s sunshine pine coloured rendered brick, with concrete planters filled with succulents and cigarette butts standing like two soldiers at the entrance. Sometimes the parents look nervous, knowing they need to shit but aware of the queue.

At night, you might bump into the same person, no longer a stranger because you had to tell their kid off for licking the communal bin, and you chat in front of the mirror with your mouth full of toothpaste.

It's the best.

Our pals, with their sons in tow, would run around with our boys at the beach, on their bikes, up the track. Jumping, wrestling, smashing the sand. Kids being kids. No adults in sight.

At night, we would nestle in after the kids had gone to sleep for tea out the front of our caravan, watch the fire burn and discuss the difference between Aldi and Coles, favourite pizza toppings and holidays of our youth.  Adults being adults until someone would let off a fart then we'd all cack ourselves with laughter.

Caravaning. Camping. This is the way forward with our holidays now. Long ago are the days of five star resorts and stunning hotel rooms. But by golly, it's so much fun to be disgustingly grotty for a few days, acting like a kid, just like it was 1986 all over again. I can't wait to return next year.

Vision vs Reality: Holidays with kids

This afternoon while walking my pooch Cheef Dog, I witnessed a hero.

This man was reversing his Nissan Patrol complete with trailer and massive boat into his garage off a main road.

Not only was he owning this stressful situation, he was using all four of his reversing mirrors while his two dogs barked and scratched at the fence, his reverse beeper sound went off every half second, traffic had come to a standstill, a cyclist leaned on his bike obstructed by the trailer, and here I was standing there awkwardly while my dog ran his bum along the patch of turf and bindis on the nature strip, watching in awe. And during this whole time, the man's wife was shouting directions from the rear of the garage.

"Straighten her up, ya trombone."
"No the other right, ya peanut."
"Use your mirrors."
"Do you want me to do it? I've got to get dinner on."
"Just leave it there and fix it in the morning."
"I've got to call nan."
"To your left, left, LEFT. Oh no, your right"

And so on. Then he parked the boat trailer.

Then the man got out of the car, went and checked it's position and said to me: "She's not perfect, but she's straight enough."

I didn't know if he was talking about his boat or his wife.

Either way, it got me to thinking about the short little holiday my son and I went on over the weekend. Holidays with kids, they're never really holidays are they?

Here's my weekend in a chart:

VISION:
Taking my son to see a lighthouse. Together we would hold hands and experience the nostalgia of an iconic historical architectural emblem. We would take a picture perfect selfie and ride our bikes slowly back down the hill and stop by the ice cream parlour on the way home for a treat.

REALITY:
We arrive at the beach house we are staying at, which is STUNNING. My son notices the TV and says "Turn it on mum" (note the absence of manners). I tell him "no, we are going to see the lighthouse, hop on your bike". He says, "later, not now, mum. Turn it on." I get a packed lunch ready while he chucks a tantrum.
Finally on the bike he rides really fast ahead of me, so I have to chase him up a hill in thongs. I noticed he has crapped his dacks, but he doesn't care he is distracted by the lighthouse. He races towards it and runs through a wedding which is taking place underneath, poo appearing on his thigh.
I'm out of breath when I arrive at the lighthouse to find my kid clawing at the door, beside himself with tears. "Make it open, mum. Make it open. I want to see the lighthouse."
The lighthouse is closed, the wedding guests are staring at me and my crap-dacked kid. I tell him there's a pterodactyl (who knew that word started with a 'p') laying eggs at the lookout to get him away  from the beautiful wedding scene.
Arrive at the look out, ready for our beautiful selfie moment. The view is breathtaking. I go to show my son, but he is two busy playing with a broken wench thing. I ask him to look up at the view to see the boats and the yachts and the water and the sky and all the pretty things. He says "go away, not now, busy mum."
He doesn't even look. Not once. The wench is 'broken' he must fix it. We spend a long time playing with it. A long time.
We ride past the ice cream parlour on the way home because the poo has reached his ankle and I had forgotten a nappy/spare jocks/spare shorts/wipes/money.

VISION:
My beautiful blonde boy playing on the beach, building perfect sandcastles and Instagram-worthy moats while I relax with my Lena Dunham book on a flat, clean beach towel, skinny in a two piece bikini. No sunburn.

REALITY:
My son squealing with absolute fear from the huge flock of seagulls which are trying to eat his cupcake. They crowd in so fucking thick, I'm terrified they're going to grab him and fly away with him clenched in their claws. I shoo them away, running after the birds flicking them with my hand towel (I packed the wrong beach towel from the beach house) feeling my thighs wobble in my 1990s-esque one piece complete with 'Totally' written in fluro font across the chest. My son somehow in all of this decides to take off his shorts, and he doesn't wear another pair for the rest of the holiday.

There's so many visions vs reality scenarios I could take you through (steam train ride = kid falling asleep in the cabin for most of the trip, Alfie telling the man at the IGA counter that the six pack of beer I had was "mum's way of dealing with it", or explaining to the fish and chip shop lady that "mum gives me chips all the time", or asking the bikie who chased after us to give us Alfie's forgotten thongs if he was a pirate), but you would be bored.

In saying that though, without a kid on holiday with me, I reckon I'd be bored too. Whilst there's heaps more stress, anxiety, unsure feelings and frustrations, I kind of relate to the boat reversing man today, if holidays were as perfect as you planned, they'd be boring. If he cracked that trailer reverse in one go without anyone looking, no dogs barking, no wife directing him while live tweeting, well that would be just plain pointless.

So to the boat reversing man, you're my hero. I hope I'm like you and cool as a cucumber next weekend when it comes to reversing our four wheeler next to the crooked beach caravan while my kid throws toys at me from the back seat.

I look forward to it already.

Missing Person

I want to let you in on a little secret. Actually, it’s a pretty big secret, because I feel a little embarrassed about it. But it’s not a ‘do-not-tell-anyone’ secret like the time I got so hideously drunk off five beers and spewed in front of my son, or a ‘please-don’t-judge-me’ secret like the time I used a tea-towel  tied up with a ribbon as a nappy and took my son to Coles’ to buy nappies (I was totally and ashamedly out), or a ‘what’s-wrong-with-me-medically’ secret where I laughed so hard I weed my pants a little moment.  No this is a secret that I want to tell you because I don’t think I should feel embarrassed about it. So instead, I want to share this secret so other people can say: “Yo, Ali… I’m in exactly the same boat. Let’s be mates and freaking rule this world.”

Great Expectations

I recently went on a little holiday to Queensland with my family. It was hilarious, like watching the Griswald family get ready for Christmas. Why is it that you can never fully pull your shit together when you have a toddler in tow?

We left Melbourne on Christmas Eve at 8pm. My hubby Reggie had a huge hangover from his work Christmas party the night before and he had had to work the whole day, leaving me to pack (probably a good thing in hindsight). During the day, Alfie had a massive stack, scoring a huge egg on his forehead. To calm down the tears, I decided to get him to help me pack.