The Quiet at the End of a Fractured Day

It’s easy now, in the stillness of the evening, by the calm light streaming from the bedside lamp and the soothing hum of the air conditioner, to say I survived the day.

I almost forget that he screamed “No holiday” for most of the drive here, and how I lost my cool at one point and told him to “be quiet” while I tried to navigate the roadwork and closed laneways on unfamiliar roads.

I just wanted him to have a good time. I thought it would be fun to go to the pool. I asked him so many times because he loves swimming.

Luckily, we arrived, and he forgot all about the “no holiday” he’d been chanting in the car. He started running excitedly from room to room. He thought it was a game to run from one side of the cabin, shut the bedroom door, then come out and run to the other side.

And maybe it was a fun game at first. But then he wanted me to play too, and we had to cross paths on our way across the cabin, each ending up in a different room.

I grew tired of it so quickly. I just wanted to sit down and drink the watered-down coffee I’d tried to make with the scarce supplies provided by the holiday park.

I would have had a coffee before I left home in preparation, but he decided today wasn’t going to be a nap day, and he wasn’t even going to be happy just entertaining himself in his room for a bit while I recovered from the morning and braced myself for the afternoon that would follow.

Then, on one of my trips across the cabin in this game he’d created, I discovered the bathroom floor was soaking wet.

With a sigh, I made my way back across the cabin to the other side as instructed by my two-year-old director. But this time I listened out.

Water splashing. I could hear it.

I ran across the cabin to find out what was going on. He was playing in the sink.

I asked him to stop.

He then moved over to the toilet and put his hand inside.

Crying out in horror, I asked him to stop again. He sat on the ground in protest, and it looked like a tantrum was about to ensue.

Somehow he moved past it, and the game continued and expanded.

Next, he was running outside and back in again. He was slamming the front door so hard that I could see the windows shaking. I was imagining the bill for the damages we might get when we finally left tomorrow morning.

Then he was running to the car, opening the door, and coming back in again.

I fumbled in my bag for the car key and locked the door; at least there was one thing I felt in control of.

Once the car was off-limits, he started looking for “swimming.”

I told him it was just down the road; all we had to do was get dressed, like I’d been asking him for hours.

He agreed, ran over to me, then immediately protested when I removed his shirt.

I had to do something. I’d tried asking him to play with some toys or come and read a book.

No.

I strategically left toys out in his path, hoping he would stumble across one and start playing.

No.

I asked him if he wanted to go for a walk and explore.

No.

I wasn’t going to ask if he wanted to go swimming… again.

Finally, I did the only thing I felt I had left: I put on the TV.

I felt defeated.

I felt like I’d failed.

He immediately came and sat down.

It didn’t completely stop him, but it slowed him down.

Then he asked about dinner.

It was early, but I liked the plan. I made him hot dogs. When he was finished with that, I offered him a special treat of chocolate mousse.

He sat so still for about 20 minutes, working on the mousse.

But when he was done, he was back up again.

I finally convinced him to get his swimmers on and walk down to the pool.

We got in at the shallow end, where he was able to touch the bottom and walk around.

Then he started getting in and out and running and slipping on the wet concrete.

That’s when he found the buttons.

He was able to turn the spa on and off, which I was happy for him to do… until someone came along and wanted to use the spa. Then he didn’t understand that he couldn’t press that big juicy red button anymore.

I don’t know how I did it, but I eventually convinced him to come back to the cabin and have a shower.

After he was dry, warm and in his pyjamas, he went to open the front door to the cabin. I told him no; it was time to stay inside now.

To my shock, he obediently closed the cabin door and came and sat down.

We watched a movie before bed, and towards the end, he rested his head on my shoulder.

I let out a long breath, the stress from the day finally settling for a minute.

All I wanted was for him to have a good time.

And in that moment, I realised that even if I hadn’t had a great day, he’d probably had the time of his life.