#15 Summer

What do the summer holidays mean now that I am a grownup?

When I was little, I loved the summer holidays because I could escape my daily routines and visit my father for a whole month. I don't have memories of my parents being together since they split when I was one year old, but I remember waiting on the kitchen balcony for my father to come and pick me up in a very Rapunzel-ish style. The travels to his place used to be terrible because of my high capacity to get sick and throw up every time I entered his car, but the four weeks I spent with him and his family provided something I did not have the rest of the year: a sense of belonging to more than one person, an extended family experience I did not have living with my single mother. I learned many things throughout the collection of summers spent with my father, mostly how different his life was from mine and my mother's. Still, I embraced it, not only because that's the only option I had -- I would never consider my family as a democracy or myself someone who could impose her judgment and ideas by the age of twelve-- but because it made me curious to see a man in his thirties living such an apparent great life of freedom. In my summers with him, I traveled, dined outside, and felt the sun on my skin. With my mother, I did go to the supermarket, did my homework, and felt the sunscreen choking my pores. Different life approaches.

When I was thirteen, my father left the country, and the holidays were never the same. Those summers were not so glorious, but I managed to enjoy them, I guess. I read a lot, met my friends, went to the pool, and played board games. I did not wake up late as many friends did because, according to my mother, that would be a waste of time. I did not visit family either, nor did anything remotely exciting or worthy to remember. I just lived the summers as bridges to cross from one school year to another.

During my University years, I spent the warm months studying for finals and make-over exams. I did not have much money to escape anywhere but a camping site for a weekend in the lucky years, and my routines continued to be linked to books and chlorine-smelling water.

Things improved a bit once I started to work and earn my own money, but gradually, because all that sense of saving for doomsday that my mother had injected in my brain since I was a child is difficult to remove even if I have a bit of cash in my pocket and something else in the bank. I started to travel -for real- when I was a proper adult, but it did not last long because my kids arrived and bulldozed all my plans. The little ones did not stop my partner and me from booking trips and holidays, but we have to recognize that the rhythm is very different when you have a baby, or a baby and a toddler, or two children and a baby, or- as it happens now- two moodle teenagers and a hyperactive child, unable to stop moving even if his life depends on it.

My kids have traveled every single year of their lives—except the first year of the pandemic—and I don't mean car trips or weekends: They visited other countries, museums, and national parks. They visited family and friends. They tasted different foods and saw different ways of life. They moved countries... and still, or maybe because of it, they complain every single year.

"Do we really have to leave the house... again?" said my daughter when I presented her with my idea of a four-week vacation where we would spend time with family and friends in different countries and cities.

"Planes take too much time," said my youngest son.

"Can we take the Nintendo?" asked the middle one.

I never had a Nintendo or any other console when I was growing up, not phones, ipads, or a collection of comic books. Neither had I a parent (any of them) volunteering to carry it all with me while going on vacation. Traveling with my kids makes me feel like a sherpa climbing Everest, with me pulling them through airports and car rentals while carrying an absurd amount of luggage, entertainment material, and snacks. I don't understand why I gain weight on the holidays, considering the amount of weight lifting I do. It must be the Universe throwing a last laughing punch at me.

My summers have changed a lot throughout the years, and they are getting better, but I can't deny that I feel good when I am back home, —even if I have an absurd amount of laundry to wash and fold—when the kids go to school, and I can relax... and go back to work and dream about the next holiday.