My journey began early Monday morning, 4am to be precise. An early flight would take me to Northern Ireland for a couple of days. I stood by the information board in the airport, eagerly waiting for it to tell me which gate I needed to head towards as the flight was running late. Technically, the gate should have been closed and I should have found myself sitting in a cramped seat, listening to the same safety instructions I’d heard umpteen times before. Instead, I watched lucky souls milling around the departure lounge at Gatwick, eagerly anticipating the beginning of their holiday.
Some people were in full holiday mode already. A large gaggle of women walked past me (I’m not sure that is the correct terminology for a group of girls, but it sounds about right.) They all wore matching white vest tops with ‘KAVOS’ printed in pink on the back of the garment and their names were also printed in lurid pink on their chests. What was more impressive about their outfits was that all of their names began with the letter ‘K’. Kaz, Kelli, Kari and Kharlotte (I think there may have been some artistic licence applied to the last name, but I can understand her not wanting to be the odd one out.) I imagined that becoming friends with this group of girls was a rigorous process, as well as having a first name that begins with ‘K’ they would be means tested, complete arduous assault courses and dye their hair bleach-blonde before they were accepted in to their circle. Somehow ‘Kharlotte’ had made it through her audition, maybe she performed very well on the arithmetic test or maybe she was actually a very good friend, who knows?
In truth, I was just envious, they were going on holiday and I wasn’t. Or was I…
For the past four months there has been a certain order in our life. My daughter has single-handedly managed to structure our day. I come home from work, I bathe and feed her and put her to sleep. In the early days I would make the most of broken shut-eye as she needed feeding regularly, now it is slightly different. I wake because she isn’t making any noise so I go and check on her to make sure she is ok.
So you can imagine that going away would allow me to break the shackles of routine?
Later that afternoon, I arrived at my hotel after a tiring day and threw my luggage into the corner of the room. This was it, me time. I kicked off my shoes and threw myself onto the pre-plumped bed. It was heaven, serenity at last. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, the relaxation had begun. After 5 or 10 minutes, I opened my eyes, swung my legs back off the bed and decided to unpack. Once I had hung my shirts and put my toiletries in the bathroom, I threw myself back onto the bed, closed my eyes and relaxed for a few more minutes.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on the problem. I couldn’t chill out. My mind wouldn’t allow me to shut off. I reached for the television remote, flicked through the 52 channels in no time at all. I walked to the bathroom to check out the amenities. I found them to be the classic combination we have all become accustomed to. I checked out the trouser press, I had no intention of using it, my trousers were pristinely ironed and crease-free, even after the rigours of air travel. I flicked the power switch on and then off. Whilst I was in the vicinity of the press I had a chance to look at the tea and coffee selection, which I found underwhelming.
After pressing every power switch, reading all the hotel literature and checking to see if there was the obligatory bible inside the bedside cabinet, I was back on the bed, trying to close my eyes. It finally sunk in. I was missing my routine. I needed to bath my daughter, feed her, make her bottles and tidy her toys up.
I couldn’t relax, so I took a bath myself, it was almost like my normal bath time routine, but with less rubber ducks. At 7.30 I ate dinner and after a long day I returned to the hotel room shortly after to get some sleep. Before I could feel fully satisfied I pondered whether to throw the bible, the food menus and services booklet on to the floor and then tidy them all up so that I could rest easy. I thought that this was a step too far and decided I had scratched that itch sufficiently.
I slept well until about 3am, I moved from one side of the bed to the other to find a comfortable spot, but I just couldn’t find it. As I laid on my back, staring at the ceiling I realised that my problem wasn’t being comfortable, it was the lack of ambient noise. I couldn’t hear any cooing, any grunting, any shuffling.
During the first few months of parenthood we used white noise to settle our daughter, she would sleep easy with the gentle crashing of waves or the rustle of trees. Little did I know that 4 months later I would need the same treatment because she wasn’t sleeping near me. Next time I go away I know to keep a recording of her close at hand just in case I become unsettled.