Laundry day

It’s laundry day!

But the best sort of laundry day; the day when I wash everything so that I can pack tomorrow. As time goes on, I’m starting to think that packing might actually be the best part of the holiday. All that unalloyed optimism, untainted by the reality of being away from home with children.

I know I should be laughing by now, because my children are not babies or toddlers, so I will get some time to relax. The last time we went to Italy, Dash was 3 and Mabel was 9 months and teething and miserable and totally loved on and adorable but it was still relentless for me, the most-loved and wanted One With The Boobs. I couldn’t comfort her, but she wouldn’t be with anyone else. And it was always dinner time, when the extended family was sitting in the warm dusk, enjoying delicious food and wine, when I had to walk the sad baby ceaselessly.

At least I got out of the washing up duties, I suppose. There’ll be more of that this year.

This year there’ll be more child politics, more negotiating friendships and trying to put people to bed before things go so far south that someone gets hurt; which with the added hurdle of a five-hour time difference for us could take quite a while… There’ll be more swimming for everyone, more difficulty finding things to eat, more joyous playing with cousins, more mosquito bites, probably. More entertainment, more screaming. I might get to read a book or two; I might be driven insane.

A change is as good as a rest. Keep telling yourself that.

So cute! Dash in Italy. Chocolate milk all over his t-shirt, as I recall.

So cute! Dash in Italy. Chocolate milk all over his t-shirt, as I recall.

9 month old Mabel

Teeny Mabel last time.

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