Center Parcs, 2023 (part 1)
A friend of mine told me that installing a roof rack on his car was the moment when it really struck him that he is a dad.
“More so than the birth of your daughter?”
“Yes.”
I cannot fully vouch for his claim as I paid extra at Halfords for a teenage lad who was, I think, stoned, to install ours while I sat in Starbucks, sipping a latte, but I can see his point; a roof rack confirms your youth is over.
When Louise and I first met, she had grand plans of driving a Ferrari by the time she was 30. Instead, we co-own a 0.9-litre Dacia Sandero decorated with scratches and dents following an incident where I bumped into an Uber in Bradford in what may or may not have been an insurance scam. I sometimes wonder if she questions what her life would have been like had she never met me. When she saw me standing on a swivel chair, stuffing bags into the roof rack, then swearing and asking for help because I couldn’t figure out how to lock it, I imagine it crossed her mind.
We’d told Joshua and Jacob that we’d go to Sundown Adventure Park on the way to Center Parcs but, following a misunderstanding (from me) about how childcare vouchers work, my paycheque was significantly lighter than anticipated, so there was a tweak to our plans. I hoped that if we just didn’t mention it, the boys wouldn’t notice that we had taken them to a park near Wakefield instead.
Within 30 seconds of getting out of the car, Joshua fell over and ended up sitting down in a deep, muddy puddle. Full change of clothes required. Also, it was an unseasonably cold spring day, creating the perfect storm for my infuriating seasonal ailments; hay fever and Raynaud’s. Following a sneezing fit, I tried to blow my nose with quivering hands the colour of Battenburg and wondered if this was a bad omen for the week ahead. I knew better than to moan though because we were On Holiday.
Fortunately, any fears were dispelled by the time we arrived at Center Parcs. The sun had come out, my hands had regained a normal colour, and the boys were giddy with excitement, Jacob singing a rather crude song which involves him taking a poo in a rainbow. If I’m honest, it’s not one of his best - I preferred his earlier stuff such as “Joshua is a Bum Bum.”
Having been a few times now, we are well-versed in the opening day admin and managed to unpack the car, hire bikes, and find a parking spot without any arguments or barbed comments. A first. As I bounced back from the Village Square with a box of beer and a bottle of Prosecco, I shared a cheery smile with a man in a Notts County shirt and felt full of optimism.
The boys were sleeping in the same room but, around midnight, Joshua had a coughing fit, waking everyone up. It was decided that the solution was for Louise and Joshua to swap beds as I am apparently such a heavy sleeper that I cannot hear loud and persistent coughing from a small person in the same bed as me. My meek protestations were met with short shrift and an under-the-breath comment about the time(s) I have cleared off to the spare room when the going has got tough.
Jeep
It was not a vintage night’s sleep for anyone. Still, we needed to be up and at ‘em because Jacob was booked onto Off-Road Explorers at 10 am. With the boys in trailers, we cycled to the Outdoor Activity Centre where they were setting up. Jacob loves anything to do with transport and I was jealous that Louise was joining him. However, in the introductory talk, the lady said, “Just to warn parents, this will probably be the most stressful half an hour of your life.”
No smile.
Joshua and I spectated for a few minutes and her warning appeared to be accurate; 3-year-olds were literally driving jeeps around a complex course as parents ran alongside, encouraging them to steer and desperately trying not to get their feet run over, armed only with a handheld emergency stop button. As Jacob repeatedly ploughed into a wall while Louise patiently advised him to reverse, I felt I may have dodged a bullet.
“Come on, Josh. Let’s get an ice cream on the beach,” I said.
Post-Jeep
In the afternoon, we went to the Subtropical Swimming Paradise. In the cubicle next to us, a dad sounded like he was already approaching the end of his tether.
“How many times do I have to tell you, you didn’t do the activity, so you don’t get a badge.”
“But I want one!”
“You will get one tomorrow.”
“No, I won’t! You will get one tomorrow!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you are 7 years old!”
“No, I’m not! You are 7 years old!”
A pair of excellent comebacks.
Pre-children, I imagine I was a bit judgmental when I heard parents (let’s be honest, especially dads) shouting at their kids. Nowadays, I fully appreciate that you have no idea how far people have been pushed to get to this point. For all I know, before he came swimming, angry cubicle dad might have had his foot run over by a 3-year-old driving a jeep.
Swimming at Center Parcs is excellent and the boys, excitedly donning new pairs of goggles, had a blast, splashing around, and flying down the flumes. Jacob, though, demonstrated a lax attitude towards the traffic lights system and came alarmingly close to clattering headfirst into a small girl. I exchanged a flat smile with her mum, then hastily moved the boys into a different pool.
Joshua was keen to go on the Tropical Cyclone and we patiently waited in the queue for 20 minutes, anticipation building. Finally, on the top floor, a man subtly pointed to the height restriction sign which I had somehow ignored. Not wanting to hurt my son’s feelings, I was creative with the truth.
“Ah, it looks like the ride is closing, Josh. What a shame.”
“No, it’s not, Daddy. I can see people going on it. Look, right there.”
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to pull the wool over his eyes. We walked back down the steps in silence.
Back at the lodge, I took the boys squirrel counting while Louise cooked a chicken curry that Jacob refused to eat despite having literally said, “Yes, I love curry!” when she’d told him earlier. At least he is past the hurling-dinner-at-wall phase.
After we put the boys to bed, we sat in the living room with the lights off, barely speaking. Seemingly forgetting how draining a day at Center Parcs is, we’d made ambitious plans to enjoy the evenings together; red wine, music and card games had been mooted. Midway through The Repair Shop, though, Louise yawned and said she was going to read in bed. Gladly, there were no coughing fits and barring a terrifying moment when Joshua just appeared by the side of our bed circa 3 am, it was a much better night. No bed swapping.
The following morning, I took Joshua to build a nature house, an enjoyable and wholesome activity that fell within the confines of my limited DIY abilities. Buoyed by the father-son-bonding time, I was in high spirits when we returned.
“Andy,” Louise said in hushed tones as I was making a cup of tea. “Joshua just told me he’s upset about not going on the Tropical Cyclone yesterday.”
Seriously? He hasn’t let that go? He’s spent all morning with me, and we’ve had a great time. Why is he going to Louise? Does the bug hotel we built together count for nothing? Nobody tells you that you will feel guilty about something or other almost permanently when you have children.
In the afternoon, we went on the Easter Discovery Trail. It started well - the boys excitedly solving the first clue within minutes – but progress stalled significantly after we popped into the Country Club for a drink. There is a soft play area inside so you can sit sipping a Staropramen while keeping a loose eye on your children as they tear around. I feel like Center Parcs is onto something here; all soft play centres would be considerably more appealing/bearable if they had bars in them.
Examining the map, Louise suggested that, if we made a couple of detours (and bypassed numerous clues), the Easter Forest Discovery Trail could double up as a mini pub crawl. Who said mid-thirties parents can’t party? I was half expecting her to ask me to wear fancy dress and sink a sambuca.
***
Thanks for reading! You can read Part 2 here!
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