Escaping January
We escaped the cold and the rain and jetted off to the Canary Islands for half-term.
The thought of finishing work only to spend a week planning activities, walking to them in the rain while Kike worked, just made me miserable. Why are we waiting for summer to go on holiday? I actually like London in the summer. I like my house in the summer. We have a garden. We have BBQs. It’s great.
February? February needs an escape.
Of course, holidays aren’t what they used to be.
There was a time I could finish work, grab a bag and head to the airport without a second thought. Now it’s closer to military strategy. I start weeks before we leave.
I pack the kids first.
Then myself.
Then I remind Kike repeatedly until he packs.
Then I check his.
Clothes are easy. It’s the backpacks that require forensic-level planning.
Emergency medicines.
Sick bags.
Spare clothes.
Sensory soothers.
Safe snacks.
Chargers.
Battery packs.
Back-up chargers.
Every eventuality must be considered.
The 4:30am Plan
I decided against the airport hotel. After adding up the cost and imagining dragging luggage across London in rush hour, it felt like more stress than help.
So 4:30am taxi it was.
Thursday stayed normal: school, swimming, gymnastics, showers, bedtime. We’d been quietly playing videos of the hotel on YouTube for weeks, drip-feeding the idea of a holiday into River’s brain without making a big deal of it.
The night before, he stared at the suitcases.
“River want to go on holiday?”
“NO HOLIDAY!”
“Go to nursery?”
“NO NURSERY.”
“Nursery or holiday?”
Pause. Thoughtful.
“Holiday.”
Excellent choice.
Kike and I managed to get a few hours before the 4am alarm. Kike loaded the taxi whilst I got Summer up and ready and then carried River out wrapped in his Halloween blanket hoping he’d sleep – he didn’t. He stared out of the window the entire hour. Travel bands on. Sick bag ready. Summer buzzing with questions. Kike asleep in the front because he also gets travel sick.
We arrived.
No vomit. Win.
Check-in? Easy.
Security? Easy.
And then.
The shoes.
The Missing Shoes (And The Snack Bag)
In my head, I had lined everything up by the door.
Shoes. Backpacks. Coats. The carefully prepared snack bag.
I hadn’t said any of this out loud but in my mind it was obvious.
Except, I had carried River straight from his bed to the taxi and skipped the final check, leaving that part to Kike.
We forgot his shoes.
Annoying? Yes.
Manageable? Probably – it’s not like he wears them that much.
But then I realised the snack bag wasn’t there either.
Not just a snack bag.
The snack bag.
The one I’d been slowly curating all week. The safe brands. The right textures. The right flavours. The backups for the backups. The ones that wouldn’t trigger sickness or refusal. The ones that would buy us calm on a plane.
Gone.
At 6am I found myself speed-walking around WHSmith, trying to recreate something that had taken days of thought in under five frantic minutes. Grabbing things I hoped might pass. Spending far too much. Knowing it wasn’t quite right.
And here’s the thing, it wasn’t really about the snacks.
It was about the planning.
The one area I had total control over.
The small detail that was supposed to make the unpredictable bit easier.
And suddenly I didn’t have it.
I could feel myself getting sharp and irritated. At 6am. In an airport. On holiday.
So I took a breath. I took Summer to walk around the shops and calmed myself.
We can buy more snacks.
He can go without shoes for a bit.
This is not the disaster my nervous system is telling me it is.
I didn’t “let it go” gracefully but I just decided not to explode.
Our beloved pushchair doing the hard work as always, getting us to the gate in one piece. It gives him somewhere to cocoon while I explain to security that he won’t stand still, help Summer with trays, juggle liquids and laptops and try not to lose anything else.
With the promise of gummies, I managed to change River out of his pyjamas (large hole in an unfortunate location). He bounced happily at the gate, reading destinations aloud.
A stewardess smiled.
“He’s got the cutest voice.”
She tried to say hello. He finished reading the sign and walked off.
We did our usual shrug.
What you gonna do?
The Plane
I decided, as repayment for all the organising, that Kike could sit with the kids and I would take the aisle seat.
This lasted approximately twenty minutes.
River wasn’t happy with the seating plan, but Kike settled him for long enough for me to put on my headphones and start my audiobook. I watched them excitedly chat about take-off.
Then the pitch changed.
The screams got louder.
I swapped with Summer and climbed over the seats.
The next four hours were not smooth.
There were brief pockets of calm when I managed to find the correct downloaded episode (without triggering the “YouTube doesn’t work on planes” meltdown). The pressure kept changing and I knew his ears were popping. He couldn’t tell me and I couldn’t fix it.
Huge sobs.
“I want to go to bed.”
“Take me home.”
Then, more desperate: “Please.”
The cabin was hot. The sun was streaming through the window, the airline has removed the blinds. He hates sunlight touching him. I tried to use the selection of laminated safety cards to create a make-shift blind – it slightly worked.
He started stripping his clothes.
“IT’S TOO HOT!”
He couldn’t stay naked so I put him back into his pyjamas – we’d have to cope with the hole for longer. Slight improvement. Still too hot. I found the tiny overhead fan and aimed it directly at him while physically fanning him with the safety card like some exhausted Roman servant tending to a tiny, overheated emperor. He calmed slightly and returned to his repeated phrase.
“I want to go to bed.”
He didn’t sleep. But after about twenty minutes of lying still, something reset slightly.
We muddled through the rest of the flight with comics, games, downloaded episodes and rejected headphones. I had purchased 2 different types for the trip.
When we landed, my twenty minutes of peace felt like it had happened days ago.
The Coach
Pushchair. Coach. Travel sickness pill (which he simply ate whole after I’d spent days worrying about dissolving it).
Eight minutes into the journey he clutched his stomach.
I froze.
Bag ready.
He curled up and fell asleep.
I tucked the bag away and looked over. Summer asleep on Kike. Kike nodding off.
I wanted to sleep but I never quite let go in moments like that. I stayed alert. Listening. Watching.
The journey felt endless.
But we made it and due to the winding roads it was nearly me that needed the bag. I will be taking one of those pills on the journey back.
The Balcony
The hotel looked beautiful. Fancy, even. My research had paid off.
Then we got our key. Floor six.
When I booked, I had ticked every accessibility box. I’d spoken to Jet2. They’d reassured me. Ground floor. No balcony risk.
And there it was.
A high balcony. A small lift. My stomach dropped.
Even on the second visit to balcony he was dragging a chair to see over the edge.
I tried to calm myself. I hadn’t eaten. I was exhausted. We went to the snack bar. I ate. Had a strange slushy drink with a shot of rum. My breathing improved.
We walked the scenic path down to the beach. The sun was out, it was windy but amazing to be near the sea.
The kids squealed with delight as they kicked off their shoes and ran across the sand. Kike visibly softening, he needs the ocean. I felt peaceful, happy even.
And then my brain started again.
Maybe I fuss too much.
Maybe he’s fine.
Maybe I’ve exaggerated all of this.
He can read now. He talks more. He copes better. He’s ‘better.’
There are children with far more obvious needs. Children who require constant physical support. Children whose challenges are visible to everyone. River doesn’t look like that. He can talk. He can laugh. He can run ahead confidently.
So maybe I’m making mountains out of molehills.
Or maybe I’m gaslighting myself.
Because I also know this:
Progress doesn’t cancel vulnerability.
Reading signs doesn’t mean understanding danger.
Being ‘better’ doesn’t mean being safe on a sixth-floor balcony.
Back by the snack bar, I started running through scenarios out loud to Kike because that’s what I do when I’m trying to decide whether I’m overreacting or preparing.
What if he refuses the lift tomorrow?
What if he decides the only way he’ll go into the lift is if its empty and so we wait all day to use it?
What if he won’t leave the room at all, how will we get food?
What if he drags a chair to the balcony at 5am?
What if I spend the entire week on high alert?
And the biggest one, the one I didn’t say straight away:
What if I can’t relax for a single second?
The calmness had left me. I head to Reception. I explain the problem and that I had been told we were getting a ground floor room. The lady was very kind and understanding but she looked puzzled, she went and fetched her manager and behind me appeared a Jet2 representative who was very eager to help.
The manager arrived and explained that we could move rooms in the morning but that I would have to sign something saying that I accept the fact that the new room is a ‘downgrade’. A downgrade? Does it look different?
No, the rooms are completely identical but you pay extra for the view.
We will happily sacrifice the view.
Safety and ease are worth far more than a photograph for our family.
The Reality of Holidays With River
I know holidays with children require planning. I’ve flown both my children to Colombia twice. With Summer, I used to pack spare clothes, snacks, wipes and entertainment options for her too. That’s normal parenting.
This is the bit people don’t see in the photos.
Yes, we’re on holiday. Yes, it’s warm. Yes, there are rum slushies.
But there’s also the maths of it all.
Who stays in the room when River refuses to leave?
Who takes Summer to the pool so she still gets her fun?
How do we tag team without anyone feeling short-changed?
How do we make it feel like a break when someone always has to be ‘on’?
Because that is the reality.
River likes a safe base. He needs somewhere to retreat to. So we work around that. One of us sits on the (ground floor) terrace while he acclimatises. One foot out then back inside under his Halloween blanket until eventually he’ll come and sit with us. One of us walks Summer to the slides. We swap. We check in. We adapt.
Adaptation is the key to balance.
You might read this and think, why do you do it then? If it’s this much effort, why not just stay home?
Well.
It’s just as hard at home.
At home there are still battles about clothes. Still food negotiations. Still emotional regulation. Still planning every outing like a military operation.
The difference is here I don’t have to cook.
I don’t have to clean.
There’s no washing machine calling my name.
There’s sunshine on my face.
There’s a sea Kike can stare at and feel calmer.
There are pools and slides that make Summer squeal.
And yes, there are rum slushies.
We haven’t removed the challenges. We’ve just changed the scenery.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
50 days of River 
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