The organisation and energy that it takes to get us on our holidays is herculean, mostly shouldered by the goodMrC, it makes the moon landings look like child's play.
However, Flossy elected to remain at home, a positive move.
Positive that she acknowledges it's all a bit too changey, unfamiliar, transitiony and stressful.
Positive that those who go on holiday can remove the fences that we erect in our daily routines to keep Flossy safe and live a bit free.
Positive that she'd rather remain with her Grandma and big sisters.
Then we had a wobble and a stumble as we drew close to leaving. What it was over, like always, is lost in the struggle and melee that follows. Fiery words aimed to hurt me were spat out, but that wasn't enough words turned to deed. Did I say 'wobble'? I think that's an understatement.
Then it's over and we try to move on.
Flossy moved on, I struggled to.
It was all a bit reminiscent of the difficult days at the end last year, I could feel that trauma's script being replayed and its dark fingers tightening around me.
Strange that I've now my own trauma to add into the mix, I'd not thought of it in those terms til this 'wobble'. I've kept myself busy and put my energies into work and all the other stuff. I'd thought that it had gone but there's a residual stain, that I'm reluctant to call a trauma, that hangs over me. By comparison to my children's trauma it's nothing, but comparisons are never fair.
More and more I speak to parents who carry their own trauma, not vicarious but first person. It's a result of their life and experiences parenting traumatised children, vulnerable but sometimes scary children.
It took a few days but I eventually put it all into the box marked 'later' in my mind.
We lined the dominos back up, waved Flossy goodbye and off we went.