Greetings from the depths of Fancy’s Summer Holiday. Notice I called it, “Fancy’s Summer Holiday.” NOT “A Fancy Summer Holiday.” There is a difference. Fancy it ain’t.
Oh I know, it’s always good to get away. But after a wonderful weekend with Nanny #1 on full duty, me enjoying a beer in the sunshine and fine dining in the evening, the woman had the gall to get on a train and leave me.
I know. Turns out Nannies are entitled to vacation time. Yes, I agree. It’s highly unfortunate.
However, since she was kind enough to coordinate her holiday with mine and allow me to pay for her way to and from the Continent in exchange for help on the plane and one small weekend in a hotel (for which she receives well-deserved extra holiday pay), I will forgive her.
Now I’ve got the Minis at their grandparents. Oh, H? Ha. “Urgent meetings” in other places. But it’s not really so bad. My in-laws are lovely people. And my days are literally chock full of excitement and adventure. I mean, between choking down plates of boiled beef and potatoes at lunch, meeting my mother-in-law’s hairdresser (“So you, YOU are the party responsible for this, THIS stiff, unmoving creature!” my insides seethed. ) and clawing my way through mountains of dried flowers and sea glass to the one lone toilet in their apartment, I can’t really see how an African safari or a trip to the moon could be more appealing.
So there you have it. Family ain’t Fancy. But it’s still family and its precious memories in the making. The Minis don’t get enough time with any of their grandparents as it is. And who knows how many more years we have of The Princess and Tough Cookie drawing on their grandfather with ink pens while he takes one of his 7 daily naps. Or how much longer their grandmother will have the strength to watch them crumble croissants all over her several thousand Turkish rugs. (Ok seriously, I feel like I should be on the Hookah all day. There is even one serving as a TV cover. No joke. That picture could literally be their living room. Don't ask me. I haven't a clue.)
The message? Blood sausage at breakfast be damned, I’m going to make this trip count if it almost kills me.
Which frankly, it might.