Easter Nightmare

By Melissa Stephens

As Easter weekend approached and families were making grand plans for vacation, l was looking forward to rest at home, taking baths without rubber duckies floating up my arse, eating without food being thrown at my head, and reading a trashy novel. After all, my husband had been gone for nine weeks on business since January and l was left with two toddlers under the age of three...and a business to run. I was exhausted - physically, emotionally and mentally. This weekend would be devoted to 'mummy-time'. As each day passes my plans for myself got grander, 1 would stare at the ceiling for twenty minutes and try to meditate, I might not read a trashy novel but indulge myself in The Tibetan book of Living and Dying and actually try to...think. I might even try to 'detox'' in a herbal tea bath rather than luxuriate in Bulgari bubbles, I found myself getting deeper and deeper into...me.

Thursday evening arrives, l am feeling the elation and anticipation to entering the 'me-zone' with an unprecedented sense of exhilaration, nothing seemed to bother me. I laughed when my three year old put my nineteen month old in the dryer and chuckled when my daughter decided to use my only luxury, the Christian Dior RX/80 anti wrinkle cream, as frosting on her imaginary cake and through all this l am watching the second hand on the clock...tick tock tick tock...waiting...for my husband to return home from the airport.

The official 'hand over' of children, nowhere near the pomp and circumstance of the Hong Kong hand over, but to be celebrated with as much enthusiasm, was to commence in about one hour three minutes and fifty two seconds...this was it...this was to be the weekend where I would be transformed into a deeper, more rested, more emotionally equipped me. After all, it was Easter weekend. The day when the greatest miracle on earth happened.  lf Christ can rise from the dead then I can surely rise from a shocked catharsis of withering mummydom.

Then the phone rings... My husband sounds full of joy and optimism, he is excited to come home, misses us terribly, can't wait to see us. I think to myself how wonderful it is to have a husband that loves us so much, he is looking forward to spending time with the kids...and then giddily he yelps, 'I have a big surprise for you'. My mind goes wild with thoughts of diamonds, dinner at Tetsuya's, the new handbag I've wanted Then the BOMB falls. 'Guess what, honey? We're going on vacation, pack up, I'll be home in an hour'. I felt like I had been hit with a semi-trailer. I had to concentrate on just breathing much less responding. Everything was wrong with that sentence. Firstly, vacation and kids is an oxymoron. Secondly, even if I had Sir Edmund Hilary's sherpas to help me pack, I still would not be ready by midnight. Thirdly, the realisation of not having 'me-time' came crushing down like a wave at the beach that we were going to for our first family 'holiday' and lastly, how could I ever be so selfish as to deny my precious family a vacation.

Dutifully, like a woman from Dawn of the Dead with two toddlers in their pyjamas hanging on to my leg, I start to pack. A military operation: porta-cot, sheets, pillows, doonas, beloved toys that could not be left behind for fear of a 48 hour sob fest, dummies, bottles, steriliser, nappies, medicine and of course, food.

Three hours later l still had not finished, and my husband was still not home having been detained on the runway in fog for over two hours. I started to think it was a plot between my husband and the airlines to give him more quiet time. Besides being exhausted I was now becoming paranoid. SNAP OUT OF IT! Paul arrived home at midnight, the exact time I had finished packing. How convenient, I thought, but we were ready. And throughout the four hours it took me to pack up, l had time to readjust my attitude. I was ready for fun and frolic at the beach! I would not be deterred; I would sneak in my herbal bath, read and think during wartime and well...the meditating would wait until next Easter. I triumphed in the fact I had packed up our lives in four hours without sherpas and although it was late, tomorrow was a new day and the beginning of 'vacation'. Despite my self-inflicted attitude adjustment, I couldn't sleep. I just kept thinking about the two-hour nightmare drive ahead of us. The fighting, the spilling, the crying, the nappies that had to be changed on the side of the highway, my blood pressure was rising and yet, I still couldn't voice the fact that this vacation was my worst nightmare come true. It is Easter after all and vacation is a time of embracing the positive spirit of adventure and togetherness. I comforted myself in the fact that the drive was only two hours, not four and above all, we would endure.

Five thirty am, the operations begin: packing the car: one hour, preparing nappy bag: twenty minutes, getting all in car prepared to drive: fifteen minutes and three stops along the way: forty five minutes, two spills, three tantrums and one unsavoury incident involving a Spiderman and other members of The Justice League being propelled toward my husband's head while driving AND we arrived at Stanwell Park, NSW. On first sight, the house was every woman's fantasy. A mini-Mecca set on a cliff overlooking the ocean. One of the most beautiful examples of modern architecture I had seen in Australia with 365-degree views from sweeping glass surrounding the home, lush gardens and vaulted ceilings which exposed the architecture to the outside voyeur. After the woman in me rejoiced at having the opportunity to stay at such a grand estate, the mummy in me took over with dread and as my husband put in the key I wanted to scream, 'DON'T DO IT, DO'N'T LET THE KIDS IN!' and so this woman's fantasy quickly became every mother's nightmare.

The inside design seemed to be from a creative visionary who had a physiological loathing for doors, walls and the conventions of modern homes created to confine toddlers in specified areas. Open electrical sockets, poisoned substances in hands reach, and expensive wines aching to be broken. Everywhere and I mean everywhere we turned there was trouble. My husband and I gasped; staring at each other in disbelief with the torturous realisation that this is potential for diaster. Time for a Plan. After a quick war room meeting in the bathroom, which was the size of our living room and the safest place for the four of us to stand, we decide to keep the kids out of the house as much as possible and on the beach. Excellent. Lunch first then beach.

The plan was thwarted. Firstly we didn't account for the weather, it began to rain and then all hell broke loose. It started when my son broke the specially ordered twelve-seater Italian bevelled glass dining room table, which shattered into one million six hundred thousand pieces. I know because I counted each piece during the two hours it took me to clean it up, only to stand up to discover my little girl had spilled apple berry juice all over the white living room rug.

Then it was time to start resurrecting the fine drapery, which had been a makeshift swing for the kids as each drape broke off -one by one. By this time, my husband and children were getting restless watching me clean. How rude of me. I asked him to take some initiative ('Please,' I say begrudgingly as this is the operative word in a mutually respectful relationship) and please, get changed for the beach, a little rain never hurt anyone, only to discover...my husband had left his suitcase at home. 'You're joking,' I think (all he had to worry about was one suitcase. I packed an entire house in four hours WITHOUT SHERPAS!). How does that happen?

Within the next few hours, my son buried his shoes in the sand, which we spent an additional forty five minutes looking for, never to be found, my daughter decided to baptise herself, fully clothed and I had entered the zone. 'Can this get any worse?'

My advice to everyone is never tempt fate with that question. Slowly, one by one, within three hours both children caught the flu. Toddlers don't understand the meaning of 'praying to the porcelain god'. They are in need and the only solution is to head straight toward mummy (never daddy). Over the course of the next four hours, l was vomited on eleven times and back to scrubbing the floors and rugs, which were a constant recipient to stray particles from little projectile mouths. By this time, I had been on my hands and knees cleaning for close to four hours.

By nine o'clock, the kids were settled and I wanted to kill myself. I was actually delirious thinking maybe I had actually died and was in hell. But as I fell into bed it started again. This time it was child number three and my husband who has caught the flu, was convinced he was going to die. At that point it was looking like a pleasant option and the worst part the Easter bunny hadn't even arrived yet.

I started to feel out of control, beside the house looking like Liam Gallagher and his mates had had an after hours party, there I was being asphyxiated with the gaseous fumes, which accompany three bottoms with the flu, more exhausted and.well...sad.

Why didn't anyone tell me how bad things could really get? This wasn't a vacation, it was indentured servitude. I am a capable woman, a director who spends most of her time telling people what to do. I have a university degree and have been in charge of international live television productions with on-air cues to forty-four countries, I thought that was stressful. But it was NOTHING, compared to Easter vacation. Then I was paid for my stress; there was a FINITE end. This could go on for forty or fifty years. What would Dr Phil say, besides helping me with his invaluable toddler training skills he is full of tidbits that are useful in every situation, and he's a Texan...his voice is echoing in my head...TAKE CONTROL!! So I made two decisions. Decision number one, we were leaving. After another four-hour packing session, everyone got into the car (with plastic bags in hand) and we headed home. Decision number two, I announced to all that there would be no more vacations until everyone is older or we hit the lottery to hire au pairs, cleaners, chefs, and an analyst to accompany us. We would declare vacation at home, weekends where we eat naughty foods, go to the movies and stay up late - everything you do on vacation without the hassle! And as no one much felt like talking on the drive home, I thought and pondered, feeling desperately sorry for myself. As we pulled into the driveway it hit me - no, not some Easter salvation or religious or spiritual awareness, but the flu. Could this really be happening? Believe it or not, I was relieved because we were home, and because all of a sudden the three miseries in the back came to my aid; my husband held my head, my son patted me and my daughter kept saying 'uh-oh, uh-oh'. My son kept an accurate record of how many throw ups I had throughout the evening and my husband dutifully gave me fresh trash bags and head towels through each episode.

How bad could it get? No worse, l thought as I lay there shuddering. But then, finally, at the closing of Easter Sunday, the revelation did come. Paul brought the kids in to say goodnight, the three of them stood over me with an adoring gaze and then at once they all jumped in to bed to hold me, hug me and kiss me. I felt a surge of love and emotion that I had not felt before, because for the first time since we created this family, l needed them. I needed their support, their patience, their compassion and their cuddles and they all rose to the occasion. The three members of my family had put me before their own misery, even at nineteen months, my daughter forgot her own illness to focus on me, and kiss my forehead as I have done to her thousands of times before. This was love, unconditional, unleashing loyalty and love and it took the worst weekend of my life to realise it.

So now l don't say how much worse could this get, l wonder what I'm going to learn after this round. And with each new lesson comes the glimpse of a better family and a stronger me and accomplished without herbal tea baths, deep and meaningful book reading sessions or even daily meditation, just a good hard look at the gifts before me. And even though I’m still exhausted, full of toxins and my mind has turned to mush, l accept these gifts daily, wholly and with gratitude in my heart knowing that 'my' life is 'our' life and we evolve as one...for better or for worse.