It's a Dad's life: Adam Brophy unpacks his blues
I find holidays difficult, or to be more specific, the start of holidays. A part of me always struggles with change, and the upheaval of a combined familial move weighs heavily on my shoulders. Logistically, the packing and preparation requires an analytic mind and detailed project-management acumen.
The Missus and I could bail out the door with a single pair of spare undergunners between us, but the monsters expect the whole house and its contents to be transferred with them.
When the game of Jenga that is packing the car is complete, you face a traffic lottery to get out of the city. Follow that with a minimum of five hours behind the wheel, fielding relentless "how loooong to Cork, Daaaaaaddy?" and how can you realistically be expected to arrive at your destination with a smile on your face?
I like to tease out the possibility of spending the whole holiday in the car with the elder. We imagine two weeks in the confines of a Volkswagen, with only our fellow passengers on the menu, and finish with the mantra "only the strong shall survive!"
My Dad used have us play "I Spy" on car journeys, but we now prefer cannibalistic fantasy games. They are probably more appropriate to the mood in the car.
On arrival, there are the usual disembarkation problems; who will sleep where, or not sleep, as appropriate, and then we settle into the realisation that here we are. All together. For the next two weeks. With RTÉ for company and not a hint of broadband.
All the natural beauty in the world cannot conquer my initial sense of dislocation; I am a child of the plug'n'play generation and sometimes struggle to engage with my environment without artificial aids. But that explanation does not quite reflect accurately my sense of disquiet during the first few days of even a familiar holiday, as we have here in west Cork. I feel going away puts me in touch with my depressed self, and I mean that in its true sense. I don't fear depression, I see it as a normal part of life experience, as the way we feel constantly changes through an ongoing continuum.
What strikes me is the way we expect to feel joy simply through the act of removing ourselves from our normal situations and placing ourselves somewhere else. If we operate on the premise that joy is at the far end of the spectrum from depression, to be open to joy we must also be open to depression. I don't mean to undermine the horror that the experience of depression can be, but rather to acknowledge that, to some degree, it is an expected part of life.
So, I arrive at my destination and feel much the same as when I departed my home. There is a natural confusion as to why there is no difference when so much has been invested in this two-week window of opportunity. I could claim that it is the extra pressure of having to take care of the monsters that takes from my appreciation, but I am aware that this low feeling was present at the end of many journeys long before they were born. Joy is not an automatic reaction, as can be witnessed in the kids' own undiluted responses.
The elder dives into her holiday, eager to immerse herself in all the wondrous new experiences available. The younger takes more time. She doesn't sleep well for the first few nights, clings to her parents and takes her leisure in assessing her surroundings. She expresses her discomfort and confusion at change without any concern, because she has no baggage that insists she should be happy. It is her model that enables my own gradual immersion to take place more easily. With time and a gradual loosening out, I too settle in.
I am typing this not in my spare room as usual, but on a balcony overlooking farmland running to the sea. Flies, rather than the kids, are nipping at my head and it truly is a wonderful place to be.