Lisa Hollinshead
“Do you want to sit up front?”
My son, Albie, looks at me, eyes wide. We’re flying back from Milford Sound in a tiny plane, the snow-covered mountains of New Zealand’s South Island beneath us. On the flight out, another passenger had scored the coveted seat beside our pilot, Paul. Albie had spent most of the journey next to me, pointing out mountains, taking photos and nudging me every time he saw something he thought I might somehow have missed.
Paul had noticed. For the return flight, he invites Albie into the cockpit. Within minutes, my 10-year-old is fairly convinced he is flying the plane. Paul talks him through what’s happening and treats his new co-pilot with appropriate seriousness. Albie sits taller. Every so often he looks back at me with an expression that says, quite clearly, can you believe my life? I take photos from a few rows behind.
The day before, a helicopter flight and snow landing we’d been looking forward to had been cancelled because of the weather. Albie had been devastated in the particular way only a child can be devastated by something you’ve repeatedly explained is entirely beyond your control. Now he is flying a plane. Or so he tells everyone afterwards. I don’t correct him.
I’ve travelled alone with my son for years and, without really noticing it happening, have become extremely good at being the only adult. I can navigate airports carrying an unreasonable percentage of our belongings. I can change plans, find food he’ll eat in almost any postcode and convince him that whatever has gone wrong is probably part of the adventure anyway. We’re a good team.
But on this trip around New Zealand, three men we meet along the way give me something I hadn’t realised I was missing.
After Paul, the second man is Rhys. We’re travelling towards Mount Cook when we stop to play in the snow. Albie is desperate to get among it. Rhys, our guide, doesn’t just stand back and watch. He starts kicking at the snow, smashing a snowball and encouraging Albie to do the same. Within moments, they’re playing. I stand back and watch my son light up.
There’s something about the way Rhys treats him that I notice immediately. He doesn’t talk down to him. He doesn’t tolerate him because he happens to be the kid on the tour. He meets him where he is.
Later, Albie turns to me. “Why can’t you meet a man like him, Mum?”
Thanks, mate. Nothing like having your romantic choices assessed by your primary-school-aged child halfway through New Zealand. I laugh, but his question stays with me.
A few days later, we drive to Glenorchy.
It’s one of those spectacular stretches of road that demands you look around you while simultaneously requiring that you absolutely do not take your eyes off the road. I’m driving our campervan. Again.
There’s a particular mental load that comes with being the only adult travelling with a child. It’s rarely dramatic. It’s just constant. Where are the keys? How much fuel do we have? What’s the weather doing? Where are we sleeping tonight? When did he last eat something containing a vegetable? There’s nobody beside me to say, “I’ve got this bit.”
By the time we arrive for our Dart River experience, I’m ready for someone else to be in charge. Our guide, Joshua, invites Albie up front. He lets him in on the jokes, explains the boat’s 360-degree spins and talks to him as though he is part of the action rather than a child who has been brought along for it. Again, I find myself watching.
What strikes me is how little any of these men actually did. Paul offered him a seat. Rhys played with him in the snow. Joshua included him in a joke. Small gestures.
LISA HOLLINSHEAD
“I really liked him, Mum,” Albie says afterwards.
I did, too. Not in the way my son is apparently now hoping.
What strikes me is how little any of these men actually did. Paul offered him a seat. Rhys played with him in the snow. Joshua included him in a joke. Small gestures. Probably forgettable moments in three men’s working days. But they weren’t forgettable to me.
Single parenting is often described through the things you do alone. The bills, the decisions, the logistics, the exhaustion. When you travel, you can add every suitcase, boarding pass, wrong turn and long drive to the list. I’ve always assumed that was what I missed most: someone to share the load. New Zealand makes me realise it isn’t.
Sometimes, what I miss is having someone beside me to witness my child becoming himself. Someone else to catch the joke. Someone whose arm I might instinctively touch when he does something funny. Someone who sees his face light up at exactly the same moment I do. Perhaps the thing I miss most about travelling as a single parent isn’t having someone to share the driving with. It’s having someone to share the watching with.
Albie probably won’t remember all three men. Childhood is cruel like that. The moments we painstakingly store away for them are often the ones they eventually lose. I won’t. I’ll remember sitting a few rows behind him as he “flew” a tiny plane home over New Zealand, watching his shoulders straighten with importance while Paul treated the whole thing with appropriate seriousness.
For those few minutes, nobody needed anything from me. I wasn’t navigating, organising, reassuring, photographing or making the magic happen. I just watched my son having the time of his life. And somebody else was watching him, too.
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