The Day of Departure

I recently got the notion in my head that a road trip was needed. Whether it was too much rosé or too many rounds of NZ edition Monopoly that influenced me, I can’t be sure, but I chose the grand and glorious heights of New Plymouth for this soirée.

I saw it clearly in my mind. Days spent wandering the waterfront, going to the beach and checking out the budding restaurant scene. Evenings spent feeling artistic and inspired at the Festival of Lights. It would be a grand time. I’d book a hotel with a pool. Bliss!

What I hadn’t reckoned on was the teenagers. First, the teen girl decided she wanted to come along. Ok. Company is good. She likes restaurants. We can share a bed. No problem. Planning proceeded. Then the teen boy decided he would come too. Right. Well, the beach is still on the itinerary, but now I need a bigger budget to cover an extra bed and a significantly larger restaurant bill. Manageable though. And besides, I should be grateful that the teenagers are even interested in travelling with their Mum. Proving to myself that all those expensive, half-filled gratitude journals were not a waste, I took a mindfully deep breath, murmured some Insta-worthy, grateful-sounding, live in the moment catchphrases and proceeded to book our trip.

The day of departure arrived. As I barked orders about bags and road snacks and making sure the teenagers’ dirty clothes were not left on the floor, I noticed something strange.

Our system of packing involves leaving completed items in a hazardous pile by the front door ready for loading into the car. We’ve done this for years. If we’re going to the bach, board games and beach towels and bottles of bubbly pile up by the door. If we’re going on the plane, travel pillows, hand luggage and carefully weighed suitcases trip people over. This process is our normal. But something about the items piling up at the door prior to this departure stirred alarm in me.

First, it was the presence of my son’s ridiculously large hiking boots. Then it was the walking poles. The final straw was the gaiters. For those who, like me, believe that hiking is the distance from the couch to the kitchen to top up the snacks, let me explain. Gaiters are not sharp-toothed reptiles lurking in America’s southern swamps waiting to take a snap at the first guy in overalls who rides past them on his fan powered tin dinghy. Gaiters are protective covers that wrap around a hiker’s boots and lower legs. Generally they are there as protection from snake bites but in New Zealand, just protection from looking like a normal person, I believe. Although I suppose they could be for the mud.

“What are you doing?” I asked the teen boy.

“Packing,” he said.

I advised him that I could see that quite clearly but was he aware that it was extremely unlikely he was going to encounter a snake at the Festival of Lights? And was he aware that it was extremely likely I was going to disown him if he wore gaiters as casual attire?

“Mum, I need these to climb.”

Climb? “Excuse me, what?! Did you just say climb? Mount… WHAT?”

“Mount Taranaki, Mum. That’s why we’re going to New Plymouth.”

I had been deceived. I had been tricked. My attitude of gratitude was done under false pretences. I was not taking my kids on a nice, relaxing holiday to eat some food and see some twinkly lights. I wasn’t even taking them on a nice, artistic holiday so I could pretend like I was instilling culture in them. They were using my holiday as a transport route so they could climb A MOUNTAIN! I did not sign up for this.

While I tried to regain my equilibrium and work out how to take back control of my rapidly deteriorating road trip dreams, I stood in the doorway and examined the growing pile. Under the bags and boots and the odious gaiters I spotted the corner of a snaplock bag. My breath caught. My heart plummeted. I knew what it was and I knew what it meant. There would be no classy restaurants. There would be no art. There probably wouldn’t even be any twinkly lights. There would be a grimy, unsophisticated all-you-can-eat buffet in order to load up on as many carbs as possible. The mountain climbing was a done deal and there was not a thing I could do about it. The teenagers had won. That snaplock bag was filled to the brim with scroggin.

I picked up my suitcase. I carried it back down the hall. I unzipped it and pulled out the strappy sandals. I pulled out the pretty sundresses. I pulled out the beige coloured suck-‘em-in tummy tucking knickers. I threw in some socks and some tshirts and then I rummaged in my drawer until I found them. My biggest and best pair of elastic waisted stretchy pants. I placed them on top, zipped the bag back up, and returned it to the doorway pile, a smug smile on my face. I might not have had any intention of climbing that damn mountain with those damn teenagers, but I can tell you now there is no way I was going to let them defeat me at an all-you-can-eat buffet.