School holidays survival guide? No idea — I'm dead

Carnival chaos, near-death encounters with Australian wildlife, impending bankruptcy and a zip-lining adventure directly to hell.

Oct 08, 2024

As I type this, my youngest son is having a poo with the door open in the next room, singing a song to himself with nary a care in the world.

When I worked full-time, the school holidays were mainly a period of intense stress. Imagine a juggling clown (me) throwing many balls into the air and dropping them in a very comic manner, falling about the place shouting, crying and pouring wine like a lunatic (insert unhinged laugh here).

To keep the kids occupied, I’d book various activities (that they would inevitably hate before trying: “OMG, that place sounds so boring, annoying, etc.”), enlist the grandparents for a day here or there (hours of TV and sugar incoming), tag-team with my partner — you take the morning, I’ll do the arvo — and try to take a day or two off work to appease my guilt. It was always a messy few weeks, with a nagging sense that I wasn’t being a very good employee or mother.

I kept saying to my partner that if only I didn’t have to work over the holidays, I could give the kids my full attention. It was clearly work that was causing the stress. I had sweet visions of being totally present and engaged with them. We’d be on the floor crafting (outside), laughing over board games (weirdly, no fights or violent tantrums would occur in my fantasies) and out on joyful excursions to the park and the beach — free to do so without the shackles of capitalism keeping me locked away from my poor children!

I went freelance earlier this year, and as the September holidays approached, I decided to clear my plate — no vacation care, no grandparents — just be present with the kids for two-weeks. It would be a breeze after all because I wasn’t working! No early morning rushing, just taking our time and enjoying each other's company.

Hahahahahahahhahhahahahahagagagagagagouuughhhhll.

By my own admission, I may have over-scheduled us. In my defence, we also had family visiting from overseas, so I felt compelled to plan a bunch of stuff. It did not go to plan.

Rottnest Island, taken by me before the sh*t hit the fan

Rottnest Island - A (deadly) paradise!

First up was Rottnest Island, a stunning paradise about 40 minutes from Perth by boat. It is famed for its pristine beaches, crystal-clear water, and adorable quokkas, the world’s happiest animals (picture on my welcome post if you’d like to go naaawww). Aside from service vehicles, there are no cars on the island, and the preferred mode of transport is bike or scooter. So safe for kids (or so I thought)!

As any parent will know, no school holiday period has officially commenced without a child injuring themselves at the very start, so they can be immobile and miserable for the duration. One hour into our glorious bike tour around the island, my son hooned1 down a hill and slammed his brakes on. He skidded in some sand, came off and landed face down. The poor kid took an unholy amount of skin off his palms and knees, accompanied by a blood-curdling scream. I’m pretty sure he was in shock. After a fruitless search for anything useful in my bag (I was woefully unprepared), we knew he had to get help.

I called the nurse’s post and while she was sympathetic, someone else had come off their bike down the road from us and had a suspected broken collar bone (bikes are fucking dangerous, even when there are no cars around!), so we would have to get our own way back into town.

What followed was an absolute calamity, involving a cunt of a bus driver who wouldn’t let us on because we didn’t have a ticket (apparently a bleeding child doesn’t count — don’t get me started) and a giant fucking lizard (a King Skink to be exact) which jumped out of my backpack after enjoying a packet of crackers. Last but certainly not least, I nearly ran over a deadly snake slithering across the road while on my e-scooter. I’m still having visions of that murderous snake attacking my ankles!

The good news is that we eventually made it back to town, thanks to a nice, normal bus driver who acted like a human being. My kiddo got cleaned up by the nurse, given some painkillers and, thankfully, his injuries were just superficial. We (I) celebrated with a burger and Prosecco at the pub while we waited for our ferry back to the mainland.

The bad news is that while boarding, my nerves were so shot, and I was in such a rush to fold down my e-scooter that I slammed the T-bar directly across the bridge of my nose. I did it with such eye-watering, face-stinging force that a huge painful lump came up within seconds — it was so big I could see it from the corner of my eye. My partner went to the bar to get some ice and came back with a can of gin and tonic (more useful, to be fair), which I rested gently on my face for the journey home. Over the following days, I enjoyed the development of two black eyes and many awkward conversations.

The Perth Royal Show - Fun (bankruptcy and mental health decline) for the whole family!

Next up was the Royal Show, Perth’s premier annual event celebrating agriculture, entertainment and community (also, the place where most parents experience their first nervous breakdown2). The kids saved up for their Showbags (merch and sweets) by doing jobs around the house, including an epic dog poo collection mission.

I made a point of saying that they had to wait till the end of the day to get their show bags because I didn’t want to lug them around for hours, but after an unholy amount of nagging — “It’s our money, mum! We earned it!” — I relented and just got the fucking bags. Well, two out of three, we couldn’t find the ninja bag my son wanted. We’d come back and get it later, I said.

This was a rookie error, of course, because he proceeded to ask when we would get the godforsaken bag of plastic shit at least once every 30 Seconds for the next three hours. Eventually, I did the only mature thing I could do, and I just put my fingers in my ears and went, “La la la la la, I’m not listening,” which made him even angrier.

The other challenge was that my eldest wanted to go on some rides and the twins didn’t (apart from an unfortunate spell on the bumper cars, which resulted in a neck injury that made my chiropractor rub his hands together with glee). So while the big guy had a ball on the roller coaster, I was harassed into entering the murky world of sideshow alley. They get you with the promise of those giant teddies, but you leave broke and dejected with a pile of useless shit.

“Roll up, roll up! Everyone’s a winner!”

Fifteen dollars to throw a dart at some balloons and win a shitty paper slap band worth 20 cents! It’s an irresistible offer to two seven-year-olds.

At one stand, the guy on the mic must have clocked the moment my soul left my body.

“Turn that frown upside down, mum! It’s a glorious day. Look at your kids! They’re having a marvellous time! Just be happy! You could be our next winner!”

Is it wrong to commit murder in front of your kids? Asking for a friend.

Three hundred dollars later (plus the extra percentage they charge you for using card instead of cash), we emerged with the following:

2 x plush bananas with pig faces on them (one simply isn’t enough)
5 x paper slap bands (now in bin)
A definitely non-licensed bootleg version of Patrick the Starfish from SpongeBob (currently residing in a bush in our garden)
1 x weird fairy with sticks for legs
2 x gummy teddy bear key rings (since been gutted by our dog, Luna)

Feeling like I’d been absolutely violated in the most stressful way (robbed with carnival music playing in the background), it was finally it was time to make a swift exit, but not before securing the very important ninja show bag that my son’s mental health hinged upon.

Well, it turns out that EVERYONE decided to get their bags at the end of the day, and by the time we got back to the show bag pavilion, it was FUCKING HEAVING! But rest assured, after much jostling, said bag was purchased, and the train ride home involved one hour of two boys poking everyone with ninja swords, shouting “chop!” and stuffing their faces with chocolate.

The Zoo (it rained)

Next was the Perth Zoo. What can I say about the Zoo? It was raining. The animals were all hiding from the weather. We saw fuck all. My feet hurt. I came home very tired (again).

Zip-lining (your way to hell)

Finally, our day trip up to Yanchep National Park to zip-line among the trees! Upon arrival, I was informed that I had accidentally booked us into their Victorian course (3,378 km away in a completely different state). The woman at reception could see the desperation on my face as she explained it was incredibly busy due to the school holidays (I know! That’s why I booked weeks ago…in the wrong state!), so she took pity on me and squeezed us in. After an hour (that felt like six) of the kids asking me when it was starting, we were ready to go!

If this image had sound, it would be the sound of bickering

Helmets and harnesses on, my eldest went off to the bigger course, while the twins had to do the junior course with an adult (me) supervising from the ground. After a few initial wobbles, they were off and running. This mostly involved me craning my neck up (not ideal after bumper car-gate), staring directly into the sun and shouting, “WAIT!” every twenty seconds so they didn’t rock the obstacle for the smaller kids.

Of course, they both needed to pee halfway around (despite telling me they 100% DID NOT NEED TO GO, MUM, STOP ASKING), and they fought with each other non-stop.

“She’s making it move!”

“He’s pushing in front!”

“She made me fall!”

“He looked at me!”

Did I mention they went around the course eight times over a 2.5-hour period?

Course completed, and my neck finally reset to a normal position, we drove to a nearby beach and found an ice cream van. I couldn’t have been less thrilled. My younger son loves ice cream but can’t stand it dipping on him (real fucking first-world problems here).

“Hey buddy, it’s quite a hot day and you know how you hate it when ice cream drips on you? Maybe a cup is a good idea.”
“No, I want a cone.”
“Are you sure about the cone? I don’t want you to waste the ice cream? I’m not buying another one.”
“I want the cone.”

The cone was hesitantly purchased. Dripping occurred, and a tantrum ensued. Said ice cream was thrown in the bin. SACRILEGE!

En route back to the car, he announced a new request.

“Mummy, I want a hotdog.”
“Sorry mate, no hotdogs today.”
“I hate you and you are the worst mum in the world!”

By the power of Grayskull, I stopped myself immaturely shouting, “WELL, YOU ARE THE WORST KID IN THE WORLD!” in his face. When they go low, we go high (in public).

Finally, we were in the car and on our way back home, where I planned to lie down in a dark room for an unspecified period of time and hum to myself. My daughter, who was sitting behind me, suddenly felt car sick (fuck you ice cream van man). She proceeded to scream and wail and kick the back of my seat like a scene from the fucking exorcist for 40 minutes. By some miracle, she did not vomit, but I was very tempted to make a diversion to the airport and run screaming from the car, never to return.

As we got home and I settled the tired kids in front of the TV, I was comforted by the fact that they would be still and be quiet for at least two hours. I lugged my exhausted body and short-circuiting nervous system upstairs to my bedroom and lay down. Just as my head hit the pillow, I heard a huge crash downstairs followed by a sickening splash, then the worst sound of all…

”Muuuuuuuum!”

How soon can I go back to work?

Know someone who would LOL at my misfortune? Feel free to share!

For the non-Aussies among you, hooning means deliberately driving a vehicle in a reckless or dangerous manner.

This is not backed up by any research. It’s based on a selection of anecdotal evidence where parents say, “FUCK THAT! I’M NEVER DOING THE ROYAL SHOW AGAIN,” followed by a bottle of wine and maybe a divorce.