My father's day gift

This year I decided to give the ultimate father’s day gift to my dear hubby  – a weekend of one on one with our two, lovely children. I (ahem) unselfishly vacated the house so he could get to grips with wonky nappies, bathtime soakings and toddler tantrums. Of course in the spirit of giving him this important ‘quality time’ I had to be out of sight and out of reach. The only thing for it was to take up the invitation to go on a hen weekend to Spain with my girlfriends.

Hubby had the weekend etched into his blackberry calendar for around 3 months – surely enough notice, yet  as the day of departure approached I could sense the anxiety building: “Exactly what time will you be home?” “What’s the landline for the villa?” “Which nappies does ‘Peachy number two’ wear?” Of course, hubby wasn’t taking any chances and had pre-booked himself into ‘share’ this quality time with his parents  - this strategy meant that he could delegate to his mother and then take all the credit. I had packed everything for the children, him and the dog (yes she requires her own vanity case too) – he  just needed to turn up, tune in and play the part. I’d saved him from the ultimate experience of simultaneous life-juggling: cooking, cleaning, nursery drop offs etc. I crossed my fingers and hoped they’d all get along and may not even notice my absence.

It was to be my first weekend away for a zillion years and importantly the first weekend hubby had ever looked after the boys as a solo parent. As with all good plans, however, things didn't quite go according to the book. The day came and the anticipated sweet goodbye was hijacked by a ranting match with ‘Peachy number one’ who had decided to smear factor 50 into the recently cleaned sitting room rug . Not one patch but around fifty – we left on a bad note which was not the plan but I had to wipe away the tears. The villain, ‘Peachy number one’ looked shaken, ‘Peachy number two’ seemed amused that for once it wasn’t him that was in trouble, whilst hubby tried to dampen the fallout in order to ease his path to a weekend of harmony.

I waved them off goodbye, slammed the door and took in a deep breath (would I regret having a slanging match with 'Peachy number one' when I wasn't there to kiss and make-up). It was too late though because they were off and to appease my angst I turned to the only therapy I knew - cleaning - the twist pile was rescued from the sun block and the house smelt of bleach. With cleansing duties ticked and minds soothed it was time to go - the hen and her chickens were ready  – we had successfully ditched our responsibilities and were up for fully embracing a weekend of camaraderie and wind-down. Thankfully the ash cloud had even lifted and we were off to sunny Spain. It is amazing how easy air travel is when you don’t have to sit with a toddler who believes, very strongly, that the food tray is an object of destruction.

Despite the hen’s pleas for class and sophistication – we decided to mark our dear friend’s impending nuptials with the usual wagon of flashing garters, blow-up unmentionables and twinkling Princess tiaras. Conil the nearest Spanish town was, however, unphased by our attempts at shock and show. There must have been at least three other hens brazenly parading through the market square with horn adornments and excuses for skirts. In comparison, our hen dressage looked a little middle-aged. Despite the uno point to Spanish hen and nil point to English hen – we had a blast – with trips down the school memory lane re-visited and remembrances of embarrassing escapades and juvenile trivia. I laughed and laughed and laughed. There’s truly nothing like golden friendships – the ones that you can pick up and drop off as your paths take different routes but always, always hold dear.

The weekend of hen tomfoolery was interjected with smatterings of tapas, pink wine and trips to the beach  – heaven. I had a total wind-down and importantly got time to  spend  with my dearest friends.

Back in Angleterre – hubby was wrestling with a poorly ‘Peachy number two’ who was dealing with another bout of bronchilitis – it got so bad on Sunday night that a trip to A&E was in order – poor lamb. It was not the news I was hoping for when I woke up, bleary eyed the day after the night before. Still hubby and granny countryside  managed as I knew deep down they would, and assured me all was well and that importantly, ‘Peachy number two’ was no longer distressed. It didn’t prevent, however, the ding, ding of the guilt-o-meter from ringing around  my ears.  The good news was that despite the interspersions of emergency hospital trips and midnight waking – hubby had to admit that he’d actually enjoyed hanging out with the children and getting involved in  some of the more fun activities - see I told you it was the ultimate father's day gift. I was delighted and it was a great bounce back from the sickness story low.

Soon enough it was time to take the return flight and gather together some Andalucían gifts for the children together with some chorizo for hubby – I was hoping this would be a fair exchange for a weekend of childcare and emergency trips to the hospital. One plane journey, a train transfer and a taxi ride through the back-streets of London later and we made it home – I couldn’t help but peek in at the sleeping boys – ahhhh my heart leaped with excitement. I’d had a wonderful time but it was just so lovely to come home to my gorgeous boys.

Toodle pip: photos to guffaw over, L-plates to pack away.