Home sweet home...

Hurrah! We're home!

That's not to say that we didn't have a fabulous time (we did), that the chalet we stayed in wasn't perfectly located (it was), or that we argued with the friends we were on holiday with (we didn't), but it's just lovely to be back in your own space.

Even if there are about 5,000 loads of laundry outstanding.

I told Husband this evening that when we win the lottery, my main luxury will be to have someone to do our washing for us. Of course, being a man, and having initially pointed out that you need to be in it to win it (can't remember the last time we actually got round to buying a ticket, but never mind), he got carried away, and started envisaging all sorts of house-keeper type services. Apparantly just laundry is not enough; we need someone living in the grounds of the palatial mansion we will move into, who will be on-call at the touch of a button, who will do all the shopping, tidying, and general admin, will ferry the kids to school, and generally take the pain out of life.

He's clearly missing catered chalet-living already - and we only got back at 3.00pm today.

So this evening, I sent him out to forage for a curry as since we have - yet again - forgotten to buy a lottery ticket, there is no-one to do our laundry other than me, and I am clearly far too busy sorting coloured clothes from whites to consider setting foot in the kitchen - and I wanted to write this post.

I can't blame him for missing the 'help' really, it's addictive. But I think the main thing that has come out of this holiday is how different it was from skiing holidays pre-kids.

For example:

Then: drive through the night to arrive first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed and dehydrated, to dump your stuff in your tiny apartment, and rush down to the ski lifts to get your pass and dash up onto the slopes.

Now: arrive mid-afternoon (after a crushingly early start, mind you - I am not at my best at 5.30am, especially when covered with milk from Boy #2's leaking bottle), unpack - everything, including all the useless stuff you added at the last minute knowing you probably wouldn't use it but hey, that spare pair of sunglasses could come in handy in case Boy #1 loses his at ski school and of course you will be far too busy to walk the 10 metres to the shop to buy replacements there (even if the sales have started already) - and then sit down for a nice cup of tea before sorting out your ski hire.

Then: following an extended apres-ski session at Pub le Ski Lodge, spend a happy couple of drunken hours sliding down the nursery slope on your butt and a tea tray, squealing like a stuck pig and wondering why everyone in the resort isn't out there with you having the time of their lives too.

Now: after an extended bath session with your sons, spend a frustrated couple of hours with them trying to convince Boy #1 that no, it isn't a good idea to put on his ski trousers and go and join the oh-so-happy grown-ups out on the piste, and that it really is time to go to sleep now. Once he has eventually dropped off, and you have woken up from your half-hour nap on the twin bed next to him where you just put your head on the pillow for 5 minutes to convince him to close his eyes, you chunter crossly to the other grown-ups in your party about irresponsibility when drunk, and wonder enviously if those 20 year olds outside could just turn the volume down a little...

Then: leave the apartment each morning at around 8.45am to make the first lift up, spend the day skiing hard (though of course not well), fortified only by vin chaud, tartiflette, mini-mars bars and the odd plate of chips, before skiing home exhausted at around 5.30pm just in time to change your sweaty top and head for - you guessed it - Pub le Ski Lodge, to talk about the number of wipe-outs you had and how funny it was watching Mark take out Rob at the top of that icy slope.

Now: wake up at 7.00am, spend the next hour and 45 minutes cajoling your children to eat breakfast, suit up Boy #1, cover all his exposed skin with heavy-duty sun cream which of course also smears itself attractively across your black ski trousers, and drag him unwillingly across the piste to his lesson.

Once there, he practises his impression of 'The Scream' face whenever he looks at you, but is cheerfully chatting to his neighbour, the teacher and anyone who'll listen about how he'll be skiing down the mountain by lunchtime the moment your back is turned. You know this, because of course you have eyes in the back of your head, but still feel horrifically guilty as eventually, around 9.30am, you leave the edges of the class and head back to the chalet to get your skis. By the time you reach the lifts it is 10.00am, and you have exhausted yourself by simply putting your boots on.

After a gentle of couple of hours on the slopes you decide to call it a day and go home. You are totally knackered, and fall asleep on the sofa to the accompaniment of children's dvd's (Winnie the Pooh in Dutch - guaranteed to be soporific) at around 3.30pm.


Needless to say, we will be booking next year's trip toute suite...