School Ski Trip: When saying no feels like failure | Saffron & Cyrus

I was flicking through a lifestyle magazine, the sort where winter involves cosy chalets, immaculately white snow and hot chocolate delivered before you’ve even realised you’re cold. It reminded me of sledging as a child, followed by an afternoon curled up in front of the fire. For a moment, I was prepared to relocate to the Alps. Then the school ski trip letter arrived, and my romantic vision of winter was interrupted by reality.

The school WhatsApp group sprang into action. Parents were discussing arrangements and whether their children had been selected. Meanwhile, I was calculating how many tins of baked beans we’d need to live on if Cyrus went. The trip cost what we’d spend on a family summer holiday, and although I wanted him to experience skiing with his friends, we decided against it.

Cyrus appeared unphased. I, on the other hand, had already imagined him watching his friends depart, feeling left out and remembering this injustice well into adulthood. He hadn’t said any of that, of course. I’d managed to manufacture the emotional crisis myself, complete with a future conversation in which he reminded me about the ski trip he never went on.

Sometimes the childhood experience we’re trying to protect our children from is one we haven’t quite forgotten ourselves.

My reaction had more to do with my childhood than his. My parents couldn’t send me on my state-school ski trip either. I remember the disappointment, along with several other questionable features of my teenage years, including those hideous PE gym skirts with shorts underneath. I didn’t blame my parents because I understood their reasons, although understanding something doesn’t make it less disappointing when you’re young.

Somewhere between that experience and becoming a new mum at 40, I seem to have made myself a promise that Cyrus would have more opportunities than I did. It’s a lovely ambition until you realise that childhood isn’t something you can improve through somebody else. Cyrus isn’t me, and his experiences, disappointments and memories will be his own. Yet I was allowing something that happened decades ago to influence how I felt about a normal parenting decision.

Parenting decisions just don’t feel private anymore. There’s always a school WhatsApp conversation about what to buy the teacher as a group for Christmas, an Instagram photograph or somebody discussing their latest family adventure abroad. I don’t think other parents are deliberately making anyone feel inadequate, most are just getting on with their lives. Unfortunately, comparison requires very little encouragement when you’re already wondering whether you’re doing enough for your own.

I wonder whether modern parenting has become an exercise in trying to ensure our children never miss anything. There’s so much pressure to make childhood memorable, preferably with photographic evidence on Facebook. Of course, much of that comes from ourselves. Nobody in the WhatsApp group suggested I was letting Cyrus down. I reached that conclusion on my own, which says more about my expectations than anybody else’s.

Once I’d stopped imagining Cyrus abandoned at the bottom of a snowy mountain while his friends disappeared into the distance, I began thinking about what he already has. We take holidays together, spend time as a family and try to give him experiences he’ll remember. There are weekends and plenty of occasions when the three of us manage to irritate one another. I’m not suggesting any of this is a substitute for skiing in the Alps. At ten, I’d definitely have chosen the mountains over a family afternoon.

But I also remember plenty of childhood pleasures that had nothing to do with organised activities or big adventures. The excitement of sledging down the pit heap in the snow, sitting by the radiator afterwards and the comfort of being home are memories that have stayed with me. Strangely enough, I remember those moments far more clearly than many of the things I once desperately wanted.

My gran was forever telling me to live within my means. It wasn’t the advice I wanted to hear, but she knew what she was talking about. I’ve finally reached an age where I can appreciate the wisdom of somebody who understood that life involved making choices, and that not getting everything you wanted wasn’t a terrible thing.

I still want the chalet. I’d happily spend an afternoon drinking vin chaud while somebody else dealt with the wet gloves and damp ski boots. And I’d love Cyrus to experience a school skiing holiday. There’s something fantastic about children travelling with their friends, gaining independence and returning with stories their parents will hear approximately 47 times. I don’t begrudge any child that opportunity, and I’m not going to pretend that missing out is preferable.

Cyrus will be disappointed when his friends leave, and I won’t dismiss that feeling or suggest that another holiday makes up for it. What I can do is listen, acknowledge how he feels and resist turning his experience into a replay of my own childhood. After all, I survived missing my school ski trip, although the memory of that PE gym skirt remains a lot harder to forget.

I’ll still look at those glossy magazine photographs, imagine the mountain views and make myself another coffee. Maybe the promise I made all those years ago needs revising, I wanted Cyrus to have more than I had, but somewhere along the way, I confused more opportunities with every opportunity. Giving him a good childhood was never supposed to mean giving him everything. And accepting that he will be disappointed, without treating it as a personal failure, is something I still need to learn.

Have you ever said no to something your child wanted, only to discover that you were more upset about it than they were?

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.