There are many good reasons why you shouldn’t go on holiday with an ex-partner.
But my ex and I have been away together loads of times.
Last week, we went on our first holiday since the pandemic; a trip to Disneyland Paris to celebrate our daughter’s eighth birthday.
I sometimes forget that what is normal for her is probably a bit strange to other people.
She has no memory of her dad and I as a couple. She doesn’t remember us living together and – mercifully – she has no recollection of the time leading up to our split.
But we’re still a tightly-knit trio. Her dad and I aren’t together but we’re not properly apart either.
More than once, people have commented on our situation as though it is an achievement of sorts.
I’ve also had people compare me with other mums as an example of how they just didn’t try hard enough to remain on good terms with their child’s father.
It’s nonsense and I hate it.
It goes without saying that often it is not possible to stay friends with your child’s other parent after a split – let alone spend leisure time with them.
Break-ups are always tricky and even more so when you are co-parenting.
This trip was different than others we’ve taken in that our daughter is older now and more aware of any tension or bickering between me and her dad.
We’re family, so it’s natural that we annoy each other. He thinks I can be a bit of a control freak (guilty) and I think he can be unnecessarily crabbit (definitely guilty).
Still, the magic of Disneyland kept us on track. Mostly.
Tale as old as time; his snoring is a crime
The best sound in the world is your child saying ‘’I love you.’’
The worst is your ex mooing and harrumphing while you lie in a bunk bed in Disneyland Paris contemplating whether it might be prudent to de-camp to the bathtub.
I’d forgotten the extent of his snoring. Or perhaps my brain had refused to retain the sheer horror of the memory.
As you read this, you’re probably imagining your garden-variety night-time symphony: a gentle rumble, which reaches a crescendo no more troubling than a car revving to start or a baby hippo deep in slumber.
But it is so much worse than that.
As I lay in bed that first night I felt a murderous rage bubbling up inside me.
At some point, around 3am, I became convinced he was doing it on purpose just to annoy me.
How can a human being be so belligerent in sleep? What went wrong in the development of his nasal passages? How could I make it STOP?
In truth, he always snored like that. But when we were together that potent mix of love and devotion blinded me to the offensiveness of it all.
Well, I won’t be making THAT mistake again.
My daughter’s dad has recently found love. They are a great match and my wee girl adores her.
So in Paris, our evenings (before the ritual snore torture got underway) were marked with phone calls to his girlfriend. We shared a room, so I couldn’t help but overhear snippets of lovey-dovey stuff.
While he was doing that, I was updating my dating profile.
‘’Woman (32) seeks dark-haired man with GSOH and own teeth. Quiet sleepers only. Apply within.’’
‘Mum and dad now – smooches!’
The holiday was your standard mix of excessive sugar, sore feet and over-priced commemorative souvenirs.
At Planet Hollywood, a performatively cheerful Frenchman insisted on taking photographs of us with a view to charging us fifty euros for the privilege of seeing our own faces in print.
He told my daughter to kiss me as he snapped the first picture.
Then he told my daughter to kiss her dad, as he took another.
Then it was time for us both to kiss her on the cheek and at that point, I realised what was coming next.
“Mum and dad now” he instructed, with a laugh. ‘’Smooches!’’
I told him, in a slightly louder voice than usual (that I hoped would somehow translate to French) that we would prefer not to do any smooching.
Our daughter, sensing our discomfort and intent on mischief, allied herself with the Frenchman. She demanded we kiss even though I know for a fact she finds the very idea quite repulsive.
“We don’t kiss! Not for a long time anyway, ha, ha, ha!” I shrieked, hoping that our unusual family dynamic would somehow become obvious through my slightly manic laughter.
He scurried away looking disappointed and we were safe.
I phoned my daughter’s dad to make sure that he was OK with everything I’d written in this column before sending it.
His only concern was that I should ‘’check yer medical facts because I’m sure snoring is nuhin tae dae wi ma nasal passages. Apart fae that, aye, crack on. And you ARE a control freak by the way but no in a bad way.’’
Next time we go away together this control freak will be booking a separate room.
