Last weekend was a little out of the norm for us.
The boy and I were parted, which is not a totally freak occurrence on its own, I have been on a skiing trip before, and later this year I will go without him to my third V Festival, but I am unsure how much longer he will let me do that unaccompanied.
But this time I was off to sample the delights of Magaluf, on a stag do, and he was off on an adventure between his two sets of grandparents.
As, I am sure is conveyed here too, I am generally sophistication personified, so a three day drinking bender to the worst place on earth is a smidgen out of my new comfort zone.
Whereas a weekend of grandparent manipulation is bread-and-butter stuff to Junior.
I originally agreed to this binge in foreign climes, thinking it would be a great laugh, and that it would be good for us to spend a few days apart before the summer holidays get in full swing.
With, what I thought was, a recent history of enjoying quaffing vast amounts of alcohol, I never really thought through how I may physically cope with such a ‘break’, considering it to not be a problem.
The guy celebrating his last few weeks of freedom is also one I really like, a person who has opened a few social doors for me since Samantha died, and for that I owe him gratitude, and his company is always entertaining too.
Therefore I quickly made a decision to go, on what was initially going to be a four day trip. However Max’s school scheduled a parents’ meeting on what was to be the first day, so I chose to shorten my trip in lieu of attending such meeting.
And as well as being the absolutely right thing to do for Max, it was also the right decision for me, in terms that I would not have enjoyed the extra day abroad anyway.
In the past when we have spent this amount of time apart, and shorter really, I have always tried to make it feel like it is also an ‘adventure’ for my son, as well as for me, never hiding from the fact of how long we shall be apart.
For those reasons, I have also found it works to have Max leave me, rather than the other way round. Like this time, logistically it may have been easier for us both to head to my parents, then me leave for the airport while he was asleep, but I did not feel comfortable with this, so instead I packed my mini-colossus off to my folks for tea, and I stayed put, leaving a little earlier in the morning to get everyone else picked up and to the airport for check-in time.
Once apart, my scheduled was basically full of drinking, no sleeping, staying in a hotel – come half-way house – full of large groups of youngsters, all with similar, if not more experimental, itineraries.
Nights merged into days, all spent in packed streets with drunken children falling over themselves, or their vomit, and a Civil Guard keen to pounce on any behaviour considered undesirable (a policy that needs a radical re-think).
The boy’s plans were full of fairy cakes, trips out, swimming, toy procurement, playing and topped off with a birthday party for one of his friends.
So, which one of us had a black eye when we reconvened on Sunday afternoon?
That is right, not me.
A clash of heads at the party had resulted in my heir getting a little purple around his right eye, which is now considerably purpler.
Prompting, one of my parenting peers this morning, to say; “I thought it was you that went to Magaluf?”
And thus, this blog post.