I’m counting down the days until my well-deserved Easter vacation where I’ll lie by the pool, feel the sun on my face and the stresses of life leave my tired body.
But my Easter vacation comes two weeks after everyone else’s. For what? Because I’m missing the one crucial thing that will guarantee me free time in this precious slot on the calendar: kids.
Because I’m afraid Easter will now be the new Christmas, but without presents. For those without kids like me, it’s yet another kick in the teeth, whether we’re fighting over office vacations or battling crowds of kids during a seemingly school vacation endless. The downsides of being a non-mom at Easter still surprise me, even at 44 years old.
This is a relatively new phenomenon. As a child, Easter for me meant a few chocolate eggs and a church service. It was relatively discreet. Fun, because you get to choose your egg, but otherwise, just another weekend.
I can understand why mothers want Christmas Day off when children are young enough to believe in its magic. But since when has the Easter Bunny existed?
I can’t pinpoint exactly when this exploded into a 14-day event, but I have a theory that Easter became more of a production with the rise of social media. As parents got caught up in competitive photo opportunities (just look at World Book Day now), Easter was an obvious target for consumers.
Now, post-pandemic, there are elaborate menus and 50 types of hot cross buns, and it also shines a spotlight on who can — and can’t, apparently — legitimately take time off work.
As spring begins, comes this insane festival of chocolate, plastic tattoos, gruesome themed activities and everywhere – from stately homes to cafes – is now adorned with ribbons and cardboard bunnies.
A few years ago, just after lockdown, I set aside Easter week to travel a bit around the UK and see various friends. I was excited about this, but arrived at the office a few weeks before to be confronted by a co-worker, furious that she couldn’t take time off because one of us had to be in the office. She had booked over Easter weekend, it was non-refundable and – she played ace – it was during the school holidays and she had no childcare that week.
I can understand why mothers want Christmas Day off when children are young enough to believe in its magic. But since when has the Easter Bunny existed?
So I had to backtrack and take my week off (using five vacation days not the four they would have been with the Easter bank holiday) a few weeks later.
“You don’t have children,” she said. “It doesn’t matter when you take time off.” That’s true, but I felt, and still feel, like my time was deemed less important and that I didn’t need a break.
It’s assumed that one of the reasons I didn’t have kids was to do other things, which is true, but it’s also assumed that I can have them at any time. People also think I live with a completely empty schedule (so I’ll be grateful I filled it with babysitting, which is not the case!).
Not having children makes my needs less of a priority than those of any parent. Being childless and single? Welcome to the bottom of the societal ladder! I once asked for three weeks off over Easter, and was told it could only happen if it was a honeymoon. So if you don’t find a life partner and get married, you can’t have such a long vacation. Sorry!
I enjoy Christmas, even though we’re all supposed to go to my brother’s house because he’s the only one with a child, my beautiful four-year-old nephew. He and his wife decide what happens without consulting me or my parents, who are 80 years old and not very mobile. We all have to have an early dinner to accommodate my nephew, and there’s no room to stay even if I wanted to. If you don’t have children, you are never allowed to take center stage. You are always the supporting role to the stars of the series: the children and their parents.
As hurtful and stressful as it is, I bite my tongue and enjoy all the other delights available during the holiday season – parties and dinners without kids.
But Easter is even worse, when we have to endure a non-alcoholic lunch or a freezing egg hunt in the garden during which we all shiver while my (delicious) nephew squeals with joy. My role is to bring gifts, to be interested in him and to try not to swear too much… Afterwards, I am exhausted from the effort.
During this two-week vacation, it’s guaranteed that anywhere you dare to go, there will be screaming children. And I’m not just talking about family places. I mean pubs, exhibitions, hotels and even fancy restaurants.
A few years ago I was delighted to get a table at a brilliantly reviewed restaurant in Manchester. At the table next to us was a family with two young children wearing bunny ears and watching iPads with the sound turned up. The entire restaurant was subjected to the intrusive sound of cartoons.
I’m afraid I leaned over and politely asked them to turn off the iPads. They did so, but made their dissatisfaction clear. I am frustrated by the blinkered view of parents who believe that everything their child does is charming, even if their behavior is inappropriate.
Another time I enjoyed visiting a stately home and there were Easter events happening on the premises at the same time. I love the hushed peace of old buildings, but the experience was totally ruined by the marauding, screaming children.
One family in particular was going at the same pace as me, with a little toddler who screamed constantly. I heard the mother, a bit of a hippie and very bourgeois, say: “Oh, he’s just making his little voice heard.” And I thought, number one, it’s not a small voice, it’s a very loud voice, and number two, he has no idea where he is. He could be in a Wetherspoons for all he knows, and he’d still make that noise.
Maybe you think I’m mean. But I spend a lot of time adapting and integrating into family life, and it’s not reciprocal. I can’t ask friends with kids if they want to go to the pub five minutes early because they have to arrange babysitting.
I don’t impose my life choices on people, but they – in a way out of necessity – impose theirs on me. So, this Easter, I’m afraid to say I’ve given in. I couldn’t cope with the tension at the office, so I didn’t take leave. What would be the goal?
I know it would cause drama and that everywhere I went I would be assaulted by sticky fingers and screaming. But two weeks into the vacation, I’ve booked into an adults-only hotel in the Canary Islands and plan to take full advantage of the relaxation and quiet.