by “It’s cheaper than a divorce,” I joked to my husband, Mark, as we calculated the cost of childcare so we could escape to Puglia for a week without our son.
We took him there the year before, when he was three. I would look forward to days by the sea, Alexander digging in the sand with his fake spade, or paddling in the shallows. But he didn’t like the beach. Or the heat. What he liked was racing his toy trains across the stone floor in the cool of our room.
“We might as well be at home,” I thought as I looked forward to the sparkling blue of the nearby Adriatic. Back in London, we had Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park on our doorstep, as well as a nearby square where all the children played. Infinitely more fun for him – and for us.
It wasn’t like Alexander would appreciate the hotel either; a 16th century farmhouse, surrounded by ancient olive groves. No, he preferred the plastic swings at our local playground. So, we planned a return trip – only this time, we decided, we would come alone.
When I was pregnant, we made a promise to each other that we would not let our eight-year relationship deteriorate. Already in our 40s, we’ve seen friendships hit by the demands of parenthood. But we didn’t consider how annoying the exhaustion and lack of time would be. And that didn’t help a child who woke up at 5am without fail, and only slept ten hours, say.
We tried weekly date nights, but he soon admitted he wasn’t worth paying for only to run into each other in a restaurant, gasping and struggling to make conversation. Instead, we became our colleagues-cum-carers. “Where’s Alexander’s sweater?” Mark would ask, without saying good morning, as he hurried to get our son dressed before work. “Why are you in my way again?” I would think as I walked into our cramped kitchen, hungry, and he would be kissing the stove, making porridge. After Alastair’s bedtime, we sought solace in Netflix, not each other.
In an effort to fulfill our promise, we decided that what we really needed was some alone time. Alastair’s grandparents are too old to look after him, but we are lucky to have – and be able to pay for – a wonderful woman who is willing to take him in.
“Freedom!” we exclaimed, one Sunday morning in November 2021 when we left our son for the first time. Having spent much of the last 20 months – thanks to lock-up and isolation – inside a one-and-a-half bed flat, it was especially sweet. We drove, exhilarated, through the quiet streets of London, towards Kent. We had lunch at a favorite restaurant, at Canterbury West Station, where we had visited before, just before our third (and we agreed, final) round of IVF, I was anxious and low.
Now we had our son to respect, but it was a relief not to have to race through our meal before he started screaming, or worry about repositioning all the glasses on the table to make sure they didn’t get swept to the floor with his small hands.
I’ll admit, during our 48 hours away, I did not miss it. I was too busy figuring out how my husband and I still liked each other – behind the grumpiness and our exhaustion. We did the things we used to do: we went for long walks, our hands intertwined, without holding a hand on the bar of a buggy or a child’s head; enjoy an early evening movie; pre-dinner cocktails sipped on the sofa by a log fire; he took a nap in the evening; he had sex.
It was just what we needed and since then we’ve found a rhythm that works for us when it comes to holidays: a solo European break in early summer, followed by a weekend break in the UK every autumn. Meanwhile, we tailor our breaks to make sure we take our son somewhere he will enjoy.
“Do you feel guilty leaving him?” I get asked from time to time – almost always by mothers. I can not. A loved one takes care of him and his parents remember that they really like each other – which must benefit Alexander too.
On our return trip to Puglia, I lay by the pool, child-free and watched a woman bleed her young daughter. I wish my son; that was until a few hours later, when I saw the same child flinging pasta with tomato sauce over a white sheet. It suddenly made me grateful again for my week’s respite.
But our events are not only about spending time with each other, we allow ourselves to be involved in the things we want to do for ourselves. During that week in Italy, I spent mornings on the beach reading and swimming, while Mark photographed local towns. We want to meet again for lunch with things to talk about: the huge Egyptian-inspired cemetery he saw, or my novel, about a married mother who escapes her suburban life for a one-bedroom flat in London with her young lover.
“I hope we never split up,” I remember saying, thinking it was not unbelievable that the weight of parenting could erode our relationship over time. But fortunately, our journeys always bridge the cracks between us; for a while, at least.
A few weeks after returning from Puglia, the memories still crisp, we took Alexander to York where, every day, we patiently walked around the cavernous shed of the National Railway Museum, looking at every engine and carriage.
But by autumn, the memories had faded. Just before our break in October, we had a break up, more deeply exhausted than usual, due to our son’s newly formed habit of climbing into our bed at 2am, flailing his limbs and kicking us awake again and again. another.
Our fight was the same as always: who did more childcare. I wanted to go out three evenings that week trying to swan off for a Saturday afternoon haircut, which left me at a party full of sugar-fueled boys. “Maybe we should start keeping time sheets,” I snapped.
As we left for our weekend in Bath and said goodbye to Alexander, I was questioning whether I even wanted to go with him. But a few hours later, we were strolling hand in hand across Pulteney Bridge at dusk. After descending the steps on its south side, we kissed on the banks of the Avon. “Next time we’re tired of each other,” Mark said, “at least we know there’s a cure.”
