by “It’s cheaper than divorce,” I half-jokingly said to my husband, Mark, as we calculated the cost of childcare so we could escape to Puglia for a week without our son.
We had taken him there the year before, when he was three years old. I had imagined days by the sea, with Alexander digging in the sand with his toy shovel or paddling in shallow water. But he didn’t like the beach. Or the heat. What he liked was to run his toy trains across the stone floor in the cool of our room.
“We might as well be home,” he had fumed, longing for the bright blue of the nearby Adriatic. Back in London, we had Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park on our doorstep, plus a nearby square where all the children played. Infinitely more fun for him and for us.
It wasn’t as if Alexander could appreciate the hotel; A 16th century farmhouse, surrounded by old olive groves. No, he preferred the plastic swings at the local playground. So we planned a return trip, only this time we decided we would go alone.
When I was pregnant, we had promised each other that we would not let our eight-year love story wither. Already when we were 40 years old, we had seen friends’ relationships hit by the demands of parenthood. We just hadn’t taken into account how insidious exhaustion and lack of time would be. And having a child who woke up at 5 a.m. without fail and only slept for ten hours, at most, didn’t help.
We tried having weekly date nights, but soon admitted that it wasn’t worth paying a babysitter just to collapse in front of each other at a restaurant, yawning and struggling to make conversation. Instead, we had become roommates and caregivers. “Where’s Alexander’s sweater?” Mark asked, without saying good morning, as he hurried to get our son dressed before work. “Why are you in my way again?” He thought as he walked into our cramped kitchen, hungry, and he was hogging the stove, making porridge. After Alexander went to sleep, we sought solace on Netflix, not each other.
In an attempt to keep our promise, we decided that what we really needed was to spend a good amount of time alone. Alexander’s grandparents are too old to care for him, but we are lucky to have (and be able to afford) a wonderful woman who is happy to take him in.
“Freedom!” we exclaimed one Sunday morning in November 2021 when we dropped off our son for the first time. Having spent much of the last 20 months (thanks to lockdowns and isolations) inside a one-and-a-half-bed apartment, it was particularly sweet. We drove excitedly through the quiet streets of London towards Kent. We had lunch at a favorite restaurant, next to Canterbury West station, where on our previous visit, just before our third (and, we agreed, final) round of IVF, I had been anxious and depressed.
Now we had our beloved son, but it was a relief not to have to rush to finish the meal before he started screaming, or worry about repositioning all the glasses on the table to make sure his little hands didn’t drag them to the floor.
I admit, during our 48 hours away, I didn’t miss it. I was too busy rediscovering how, behind our bad moods and tiredness, my husband and I still loved each other. We did the old things: taking long walks, with our hands clasped, without holding the handlebars of a stroller or a child; I enjoyed a movie in the afternoon; drank pre-dinner cocktails on a couch next to a fireplace; took a nap in the afternoon; had sexual relations.
It was the wake-up call we needed and we’ve since found a rhythm that works for us when it comes to holidays: a European getaway in early summer only, followed by a weekend getaway in the UK each autumn. In between, we adapt our breaks to make sure we take our son somewhere he really enjoys.
“Do you feel guilty for leaving him?” From time to time they ask me, almost always mothers. No. He is cared for by someone he adores, and his parents remember that they actually like each other, something that will surely benefit Alexander as well.
On our trip back to Puglia, I lay by the pool, childless, and watched a woman hug her young daughter. She longed for my son; That was until a few hours later, when I saw the same kid throwing pasta with tomato sauce on a white tablecloth. Suddenly he made me feel grateful once again for the respite of my week.
But our stays are not just about spending time together, we allow ourselves to enjoy the things we want to do for ourselves. During that week in Italy, I spent the mornings on the beach reading and swimming, while Mark took photos in the local towns. We would meet for lunch with things to talk about: the huge Egyptian-inspired cemetery I had found by chance, or my novel, about a married mother who escaped her suburban life to live in London with her young lover.
“I hope we never part,” I remember saying, thinking it wasn’t inconceivable that the weight of parenthood could, over time, erode our relationship. But fortunately, our travels always bridge the cracks between us; at least for a time.
A few weeks after returning from Puglia, memories still vivid, we took Alexander to York, where, every day, we walked patiently through the cavernous shed of the National Railway Museum, observing each locomotive and carriage.
However, by autumn the memories had faded. Just before our October vacation, we had a fight, fueled by deeper-than-usual exhaustion, thanks to our son’s newly established habit of crawling into our bed at 2 a.m., spreading his limbs open, and kicking us repeatedly to wake us up. .
Our fight was the same as always: who took care of the children more. I dared to go out three nights that week while he dared to cut his hair on a Saturday afternoon, leaving me at a party full of children with high sugar levels. “Maybe we should start keeping timesheets,” I blurted out.
As we left for our weekend in Bath and said goodbye to Alexander, I found myself wondering if I even wanted to leave with him. However, just a few hours later, we were walking hand in hand across the twilight Pulteney Bridge. After going down the stairs on its south side, we kissed on the banks of the Avon. “Next time we’re sick of each other,” Mark said, “at least we know there’s a cure.”
