So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye...

Kids' homeschooling: 0     Beach time: 1 and a half days     Weather: awesome     Books read: 0     Time spent in kids' parks / soft-play areas: 2hrs     Time spent on cultural activities: 1hr   Alcohol consumed: alot    Quality of alcohol: pretty bad

3 SMALL KIDS, 2 CRAZY ADULTS, 1 YEAR TO TRAVEL THE WORLD

POST 1: 1st September 2016, Ikaria, Greece. 

Family rooms: book them at your peril. Three nights into our trip and we have tried as many different combinations. Each is almost as bad as the other and all result in not wanting to have anything to do with the other members of that so-called 'family' by the time morning arrives.

Our first shot at it came after a 5 hour journey (which should have taken just 1 - thank you rubbish airport train, probably the ONLY thing you need to provide is a service that runs on time) to the glorious Premier Inn at Stansted. We were given the 4-beds-in-a-row-with-a-cot-bed-on-the-end option (the only way they would actually take 5 of us was by pretending that Raphael, now 3, still sleeps in a cot). Source of arguments: who got to sleep nearest/furthest to the window/mummy & daddy and who was allowed most time playing in the "den" underneath this row of bedding. (Luckily, this was partly made up by the fact that the beds actually ARE damn comfortable - you were right, Lenny Henry).

Second night we thought we'd try it Greek style and mixed it up with three sets of bunk beds:

You can guess the source of the arguments this time: who got the top bunk versus who was actually old enough to stay in the top bunk not to roll out in their sleep and splat themselves from the potential 8ft drop below. Third and last time (in that we are now stuck with this for at least two weeks because of a reservation 'oversight') is the two-room family option: one adult in each supervising either one or two children depending on which combination of the three is causing most problems, with clothes/toothbrushes and shared toothpaste/shampoo/soap shuttling back and forth across the communal patio depending on which room needs them most desperately. Unluckily for her, we are separated by one quiet, single, female traveller occupying the room in between ours.

Do any of these options work? Well, we are just four days into travelling and we are all knackered. Each time that sleep is required the kids suddenly decide that they are either not tired at all (having moaned about being tired all day) or all of them suddenly need the loo. And when they do eventually drop off, two of them sleep "shout", the littlest sometimes still has accidents, and one is a massive fidgeter (which wouldn't usually be a problem but it is when you are sleeping so close to them that they are practically in your bed or if their bed is tied to yours in the form of a bunk). Indeed, I really should be trying to nap now but instead I am writing this whilst it is fresh in my mind lest I forget the more challenging aspects of this travel adventure malarkey. Because in true authentic Bobomama style, this blog will provide the realist counterbalance to my edited highlight reel of beautiful instagram shots.

So how has the trip panned out so far? It has been an almost perfect mix of struggle and beauty. Our rubbish train journey to the airport was balanced by a serendipitous encounter on our flight to Athens: our neighbours from Cambridge sitting in the row in front of us. Unluckily for them, the prospect of a peaceful flight with just their quiet ten year old who keeps himself to himself (whose double-figure birthday and obsession with Ancient Greece was the catalyst for their trip) was ruined by our three lively, entertaining under-sevens kicking seats, crawling under seats, swopping seats, crying, singing loudly and arguing!

City Circus hostel in Athens was uber cool and had a terrace overlooking the Acropolis which looked amazing lit up at night. The hip mixture of guests included travellers who had brought their instruments with them and when we discovered the view they were having an impromptu, alfresco jamming session on fiddle, ukulele and mini accordian.

The hostel environs were also an eye-opener: urban cool in a way that reminded me of Barcelona's Gothic Quarter - lots of quirky shops, bars and restaurants and its once-grand town houses now tattooed with multicoloured political slogans and graffiti. It felt edgier than Barcelona though - enough that I felt a bit vulnerable with the kids: boarded squats, crouched figures in corners doing secret things to their bodies and glazed, lost looks to many of the local residents. My wariness was justified by the fact that the group of policeman I had assumed were just hanging out at the end of the street the afternoon we arrived, were still there in the morning.

We didn't get to see any of the sights this time round (we will be back for two nights at the end of the month) but had a quick preprandial wander through the park, up the street vendor-lined avenue to a pleasant square dotted with cafes-with-a-view. Needless to say the kids stopped at every stall to pick-up/man-handle all of their goods and when not doing this they were either moaning that all we ever do is go for walks or that the path was too steep. We appeased them with half an hour spent on the swings and see-saw in an impromptu playground found in amongst the cafes. (It never ceases to amaze me just how many of these there are around. I'm sure I never noticed even one as a traveller before I had kids!)

We had a quiet supper in the hotel's funky restaurant with our old neighbours and left the staff to entertain/babysit our children who not only nonchalantly sat themselves at the bar with other guests to chat with the sommelier (adorned with pre-requisite funky handlebar moustache and Parisian-style stripey T) but also ordered their own (totally inappropriate) adult desserts from him (which they then left) and spent the rest of the time playing in the (edgy) street. Luckily my children can be kind of cute and charming sometimes too and the waitress very sweetly actually thanked ME for (unknowingly) entrusting her with them as we went up to bed. Odd.

And so here we are now in the first destination of many: Ikaria, the Island of Long Life which is just off the coast of Turkey. Despite choosing it because of its slow pace of life, we did the Bobo thing and opted for the 45 minute flight on a teeny aeroplane rather than the 7 hour ferry from Athens. Just as well because the 70km car ride from the airport along a road/dirt track that literally 'hugged' the coastline (part glorious, part hair raising) and the fact that the host of the Inn we had booked online was not actually expecting us until October 1st would have finished us off otherwise.

The rooms are more shabby than chic, small and hot but they overlook the sea and the staff are affectionate, kind and super tolerant with the kids. The food so far has been hit and miss (home-made bread, fresh figs, fava-bean puree, lemon meringue pie, ourzo pasta, prawns, goat stew, yoghurt - more like UK Onken than the rich Greek yoghurt we have at home, goat's cheese - think ricotta meets burrata, local honey, sardines, tsatsiki: HIT; squid and then chicken so grilled they had turned to carbonised cardboard: MISS).

And rather disappointingly, the wine so far has been crap. (For those of you who want a more detailed vinous update,  I have so far tried 5 different indigenous varieties: Roditis - very average, lacklustre and thin, like a cheap Pinot Grigio; Malagouzia - because my favourite type of wine is rich and full-bodied and this is meant to deliver just that - it didn't; Assyrtiko - from Santorini - it was the best so far with reasonable fruit and a medium body; an unnamed red wine which was so old/had been so badly stored it was light brown and tasted of off prune juice and an unnamed white wine (to take away the taste of the red) which was similar in style to Retsina. I actually secretly like Retsina - just don't tell anyone I'm a wine specialist). Luckily, or unluckily for me (this has yet to be decided) Greece has a huge range of indigenous grapes on offer (not surprising given that winemaking originated here) so I still have a long list to work my way down slowly. I just hope the quality is better than the quantity offered...

To see where we are on a map, click here!

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Travel Adventure Countdown: 13 days to go!

Never has a month gone by so quickly. Time is literally flying through the door. Each day is filled with last minute check-ups, purchases, official document applications and packing. This week and next include visits to the hairdresser, chiropracter, optician, hygenist, GP, nurse and dentist. You name the body part; I am getting it buffed, trimmed, polished, checked and tested. Our recent international travel purchases include sterile kits (which I hope we will never have to use), mosquito sprays, nets, plug-ins and coils, anti-malaria tablets, probiotics, travel towels, adaptor plugs, travel wallets and safety pouches, torches and reading lights, huge (and very heavy - oops!) anthologies of stories in both French and English for both bedtime stories and homeschooling, French audio books, kids entertainment, sun hats and creams. International driving licences are being applied for, our flights and visas to our second destination (Myanmar) have been booked and our VAST first aid kit has finally stopped growing. In our spare time, we are packing up the contents of the house to put into storage. Weirdly, I feel totally calm. Happy actually. I was even described as looking "very serene" this morning.

I did not feel serene a couple of weeks ago. Far from it. But now that our mammoth to-do list has only a few items left on it and I am clear in my head about what me and the kids are taking, there is nothing much more to worry about. Choosing what to take however? Now THAT was stressful. And here is what I whittled it down to:

Photo caption: two sterile kits, mosi spray and plug-ins, sun cream for the family, wash bag (mine), travel towel, family first aid kit, three long sleeve t-shirts, two cardis, one fleece hoodie, 4 pairs of trousers, one pair of fleece trackie bums, one puffa jacket (that neon thing), two silk jumpsuit (for making me feel pretty), one fancy dress, one long skirt / dress, one short dress, one skirt, 4 bikinis, two shorts, two tops, 3 boob tubes, 3 singlets, underwear, three pairs of shoes (will wear my trainers to travel), a journal and three books....

I keep worrying that I don't have the right combination of items to keep me warm enough / cool enough / ward off mosquitoes / make me feel pretty when I want to be but I'm just going to have to trust that I do. And we can always buy more on the road to fill the extra wheely suitcase we've just decided to check-in (for a mere £50).

Last week's assignment was to dig-out-my-old-backpack-to-check-that-everything-I-would-like-to-take-actually-fits-in-it. Luckily it did! It may be small and make me look like a snail but it is a bit of a tardis and has bottomless corners that you can stuff things right into. It was quite emotional putting it back on after so long. The last time I used it was exactly 20 years ago when I embarked on the obligatory "travelling" I had delayed until after my four-year university degree. Sweetly it still has my name tape sown on to the front!

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On sharing the love...

Today I had to go to two different banks to change our address, and then to the post office in order to get our mail redirected during our year abroad. I had to bring the three kids with me. Not exactly fun on a hot, sunny day but it had to be done. The to-do list just couldn’t be put off any longer. The only post office that does this is the main one in the centre of town which has big queues and is full of people with not much room to move around. You know the kind where you need to take a ticket with your number on so that you know when it is your turn. The hot and stuffy kind that you really don’t want to be going any where near during the school holidays when accompanied by small people.

And, on cue, as soon as we got there all three started climbing all over one of the clusters of red cushioned seats and all over each other. The just 3 year old inadvertently kicked a woman twice whilst attempting a forward roll from one side to the other. I went bright red and resorted to my best 'stage whisper' to tell them to get down IMMEDIATELY (that voice you use when you want to show your disapproval but can’t shout because you are in public and the room is otherwise silent).

As an alternative form of amusement, they then turned to “welcoming” people into the building by standing on the pavement outside, right next to the busy road and bus stop. They kept being ushered back in by the man on duty who was clearly terrified they would either get abducted or run over on his watch. He kept looking over at me with a fixed smile and raised eyebrows as though to ask me to keep an eye on them. I kept smiling and shrugging at him in an attempt at miming my response of gratitude/powerlessness to move or do anything differently.

I was actually half pretending that the kids weren’t mine (my new parenting rule is that anything goes as long as they are not fighting), as well as half arguing with the post office lady that my council tax bill definitely WAS as good a proof of address as a utility bill, when an old lady tapped me on my shoulder. “I just wanted to say that your children.....” I held my breath in a mixture of fear and apprehension... “look so happy and healthy. You can see that they are really well looked after.” Gosh! I was bowled over. And in true English style, unable to take a compliment without belittling it somehow - why DO I do that? - I responded that they had actually just been clambering all over the chairs so they weren’t actually that good but she responded “yes, but they took their shoes off first in order to do so. That shows how thoughtful they are.” She continued “I am 83 and I have seen lots of children in my life and yours are some of the sweetest. You can just tell how well looked after they are. It’s lovely to see”. I was speechless.

Later that morning I reflected that sometimes it takes an outsider to show you what is right in front of your nose. I so often focus on the potential discomfort their behaviour might cause others: the excess noise, the unwanted physical contact, the boisterousness, that I forget that others might not see it that way. They just see a bunch of great kids being kids. The overall picture is obvious to anyone on the outside: that I have three, healthy, beautiful children that ARE sweet, confident, thoughtful, intelligent, curious, friendly, affectionate and kind. And that hasn’t happened all by itself. It is thanks in part to me, their very own Bobomama. Which must surely be the definition of a job well done?

So this post is for all those mamas out there that get so caught up in the daily grind that they temporarily forget just how blessed they are: that their kids really are awesome and that that is mostly because they are doing a great job. Sometimes it takes a stranger to remind us of what we know deep down is true. My encounter with the kind old lady made my day. So I’m sharing some of that love and passing it on...

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On getting through the messiness...

I realised something today. Nothing groundbreaking. Just one of the many reasons why parenting is so DAMN hard. Why it demands every ounce of self-control from you and then more...Because there is an unspoken rule that says that one is “not allowed” to be rude to children. We can neither answer back nor use their childish language nor throw a tantrum when we've had enough. Why? Because we are parents. We are supposed to know better. And yet how ridiculous is that? In exactly which other walks of life would you put up with someone repeatedly telling you that they hated you? Or that they hated whatever dish you had just painstakingly made followed by “I don’t care” when told that they might be acting a little rudely. The answer: NONE! No-one has ever been as rude or as ungrateful to me as my children are. And yet because they are my children, I’m meant to take it all on the chin. Because, as a mother, I’m supposed to have automatically and immediately developed a very thick skin and become such a balanced person that it doesn’t bother me! Well here’s the rub: I haven’t and I’m not. So it all builds up. In fact, I’d like to complain that NO-ONE PREPARED ME FOR THIS! I was not forewarned about the colossal amount of will-power that needs to be summoned up every day, many times a day, in order not to lose it. Neither the private NCT nor the public NHS parenting courses mentioned just what a relentless psychological and emotional onslaught it can be. Friends that had already had children remained silent on the subject. And yet we are all suddenly expected to morph, during birth, into the saintly mother archetype who is always-forgiving, forever-loving, continually-patient, endlessly-fair.

It can be a dark and lonely place when we realise that we do not fit this perfect archetype. Firstly because it can seem like others do (although this is probably a result of our, skewed 'behind-the-scenes' comparison with others’ perfectly-edited 'highlight reel') and secondly because no-one else talks about feeling like this. It is taboo to admit failure: that not only are you not infinitely patient/kind/forgiving and fair but that you are actually sometimes rude to your children, maybe even a bit mean on occasion; that they do quite often bore you; that sometimes you don’t want them anywhere near you; that there is the odd day when you wished you were child-free.

Last week was a particularly bad week for me in terms of falling short of the archetype: I was told that I/my food/my presence/my attitude was hated a few too many times to bear and I committed all of the above crimes. I momentarily felt bad about it. But then I reflected some more and thought but why should I always rise above the challenge? Why should my children be allowed to go on and on and on and on, pushing my buttons, insulting me and what I do without me breaking, just because they are my children? The answer is, they SHOULDN'T! But they will. Because they are children. Because they are human and boisterous and exploring and trying things out. And we, as mothers, will keep having to suck it all up and keep having to try to provide them with a (mostly) positive role model.

But that doesn’t mean that we can’t share how hard it is. Sure, there are blogs out there already that slag off being a parent, and there are others that extol the virtues of patient/calm/saintly(?) parenting, but that's not the kind of sharing I mean. Because to me, the former seem to glorify 'bad' parenting at the expense of all those involved and even if some can make for amusing reading, the humour ends up detracting from the pain of the situation which is belittled instead of validated. The latter, on the other hand, seem just a bit too sanctimonious and preachy so reading them always makes me feel like I’ve somehow failed even more.

What I mean is meeting somewhere in the middle. A place in which we can destroy the mother archetype and get over the taboo of not being perfect but without going so far as to make fun of ourselves or our children when we screw up. Let’s meet instead with a shared humility about just how hard it can be and let’s witness each other without judgement. Let's help each other to get through the growing pains of parenting with empathy and encouragement. Not from a pedestal nor from the naughty corner but as equals.

As the picture above shows, life is complicated. Parenting is equally so. But in the end, as overwhelming as it gets, we do love our kids. And they do love us. We’re doing the best we can. And not only is that enough for now, it's to be applauded, because there's a whole lot more mess just round the corner to replace the one you just got through!

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On giving attention...

Today I felt like I was a great mum. Yes. "Great". Honestly. Something I rarely, if ever, feel. Why? Because I spent all day with just one of my three children. It wasn’t purely one-on-one attention. I volunteered to help out on a school trip. But wow. What a difference. My middle daughter was a joy to be around. I was a joy to be around. Sure, I couldn’t (and don’t generally) shout at my kids when surrounded by others – I save that for the pure overwhelming exasperation I feel when left on my own with all three - but it wasn’t just that. I felt calm. She was calm. There was no need to shout. I was actually fun to be around! It felt great. And then I felt depressed. I got to thinking about why I couldn’t be this way when all three are there. And I realised that when they are, in my mind, they become a unit. They are just ‘the kids’ – something to be marshalled through the late afternoon and evening by ticking various boxes: supper (not too unhealthy/varied (ie not what we had yesterday)/not too complicated; wash (without soaking the entire bathroom with various bath toys/water pistols/splashing); bedtime story (not too long/appeals to 2, 4 and 6 year old, male and female audience/not too taxing read). The “unit” is in a battle with “time”; more time spent on getting the “unit” into bed = less time I have as a conscious human being before conking out due to exhaustion. I need time to myself and therefore it becomes supremely precious. Therefore I lose sight of who each of them truly is. They are no longer gorgeous little people in their own right. They are a mass of bickering, violent, loud energy determined to encroach upon my allocated (but gradually shrinking) right to the evening.

And that sucks. I realised how much it sucks tonight. When I tried to spend some quality time with the others having spent all day with one and they started fighting about how fair / unfair it was that I was colouring in with one and not the other. It also suddenly dawned on me why they often talk about how worried they are about death. When my eldest first voiced her concerns, I was so touched that I lay down in bed with her for 5 or so minutes, soothing her fears and holding her close. The others soon clocked on that this was the only way mummy actually spends time with you, so they then started up. It makes me so sad that I can’t give them the time they crave with me purely because there is more than one of them. But at the same time it made me see that so much of me feeling like a bad mother is because I am simply overwhelmed by their power as a unit. They become more than the total of their parts. I can feel myself ‘hunkering down’ in order to ‘deal’ with them and get through the evening until I have a scrap of time left to myself.

Well, I don’t want to do that anymore. Today I thought that my middle child should have been born first. She was meant to be an only child. She needs that much attention. And then I thought that actually ALL children probably feel like that. I know that I did. Their requirements for love are boundless. And then I realised that that is her path in life. She was born second because that is what she needs to learn. And I have three because giving each of them the attention and affection they deserve is what I need to learn.

I have no idea how to do that yet but at least I know it’s what I need to work on. And for now, it will just mean signing up to helping out on more school trips!

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Artwork: 'Casting the Net' by Joyce Huntington