Table for Three

How Old Is Too Old to Holiday With Your Parents?

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer Spain won the World Cup, and I didn't know what I was doing in Greece.

As July slowly waned into August, and the dread of summer budgets and fringe admin began to lap at the shores of my frazzled mind, I flew to Athens to meet my parents.

Only the essentials…including clear instructions of ferries and flights handwritten by my Father

It’s something I’ve never really considered before. Growing up, it wasn’t a question if I’d join my parents on a trip away. Some of my friends were left with grandparents over Easter when their mums and dads went skiing, but that was never my family’s vibe (thank god).

Wherever they went, my brother and I went too.

But when did that stop?

Somewhere between uni and real life? In the limbo of physically flying the nest, but not emotionally or financially? It’s hard to pinpoint. There’s no map for growing up. Perhaps just strange signposts that you come across accidentally, haphazardly. One day you realise you sleep better in your new bed, not the one you grew up in. And then your room at your parents’ house becomes a home gym, office or eBay shop front. Or — maybe it revealed itself in that last sentence — when you make the distinction between your house and your parents’ house.

Another milestone in that journey is The Summer Holiday. My brother is a few years older than I am, and also a teacher. He spends his time off travelling with his girlfriend and going on mad walking holidays. He’s already made that leap. I’m not sure when I will. I don’t have a partner (can you tell?), and I’ve satisfied my solo travelling itch for a while.

As with most things, there are pros and cons when travelling with your parents. I pretty much never pay for anything, but they will always nag me to wear a hat. They will drive me to the pharmacy that’s only open 45 minutes a day to buy a special ointment for my infected horse fly bite, but that journey will be tense as my father is not used to driving with gears. I get to spend quality time with the people I love most, but this also means I have to spend time with myself. A time-warped, mirrored reflection of who I am and who I will become. This fact is unavoidable: you can see your full self, from birth to present day, reflected in the eyes of your parents. The good, the bad and the ugly. They’ve wiped your arse and cleaned your vomit and told you off and held you up and put you down, and won’t let you forget it.

I know that I can be irritable, foul-mouthed, spoilt and stroppy, loud and cocky. And most of this comes out when on holiday with my parents. I don’t know why. But it seems a family tradition. For us, the majority of earth-shattering, world-ending arguments that threaten to change the foundation of our family connection irrevocably have occurred in piazzas, beaches and airports around the world. I remember the worst one, maybe two or three years ago, in Italy. The vibes were so bad, I was convinced one of us would secretly fly home in the night. I was surprised to see all of us at the kitchen table eating toast the next morning, talking about jam, as if nothing had happened. And that’s the way of it, I suppose.

We haven’t had one of those this year. I don’t think any of us can be arsed. Being angry takes so much energy and, at 25, I’m being more mindful of where I use it. If Dad tells me not to have a beer until 7 pm, I won’t fight it — I’ll just pour it into a glass and say it’s Iced Tea. Crisis averted. If Mum isn’t keen on my jorts because they give me ‘a saggy arse’, I’ll just agree and say ‘they’re just for around the house’. That’s doable. That’s fine. I’d take that over a public shoutfest any day.

But even if we have found a way to enjoy a holiday together as adults, me, Mum and Dad, the question remains… how old is too old to holiday with your parents? I like to think never (?!)

But as the years progress and I get older, so do they. This is the first year I’ve worried about the amount of stairs, the accessibility of a museum, or the level of grip on their chosen sensible shoe option. What if I wasn’t with them, and something happened? It makes me feel sick. And yes, maybe that sounds like an excuse thinly veiled with empathy to bag a free holiday, but it does weigh on my mind. My omniscient presence on Find My Friends, like the looming billboard of Dr TJ Eckleburg’s eyes in The Great Gatsby, is not enough to save my family from foreign disaster — though I track my loved ones as if their lives depend on it.

I also think we genuinely enjoy eachother’s company. And I want to enjoy it for as long as we are lucky enough to have each other. And just now, my mother has brought me a plate of sliced nectarine, and now I’m thinking of that damn Wendy Cope poem, and now I want to cry.

So, for now, I’ll keep coming as long as they keep inviting me, and we shall ask for a Table for Three.

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Thank you for reading, gang — KTF — and now, a word from our sponsor:

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