The last week has been testing.

Looking after small children in a new place with hot weather and no routine, all combines to become a pressure cooker of stress.

But, despite all that, I feel as if I can breathe here.

I’m not saying that everything I’m struggling with has magically disappeared, but I finally feel as if I can tackle things head on and not run from them like a scared, weak little boy. Like the coward I’ve been for too long.

I’m ashamed of the man I’ve become. I hate looking in the mirror at this face and seeing the dark rings under my eyes and the hollows in my cheeks, knowing that the cause of it is not only what life took from me, but what I almost threw away in my grief.

I can’t take back my actions, I can’t erase the last year, but I can make a promise to myself and my kids to be present in life, be there for them, but also be there for me. I can’t be a good father, son, brother or even human if I’m constantly punishing myself.

“Princess Ivy,” I call through the crack in the bathroom door expecting an instant reply, but I’m met with silence.

“Ivy, can you hear me?” I say a few seconds later with my mouth closer to the gap.

“Dad,” she groans in annoyance. “I’m having a poo. Can’t I get even five minutes of peace and quiet?”

I can’t help the snort that leaves my mouth at the little madam using my words and throwing them back at me. I can’t count the number of times this last week where I’ve tried to use the toilet, only for one or both my kids to follow me in there or start crying, or post things under the door. It’s hard enough to have a pee during their waking hours, but God forbid that I need to have a number two.

And, I’m using terms like ‘number two’.

Laura will laugh her socks off when I tell her…

My smile cracks, leaving my face with a painful ache where my grin once was. It’s these times when I forget and store up funny anecdotes to share with her that hurt the most. It’s like my subconscious can see I’m trying to live, but it doesn’t want to let me, so it reminds me in the most hurtful way that life isn’t about sharing funny stories with my wife anymore or keeping her updated on the things our kids have done that will make her laugh. I get to keep those things to myself, when all I want to do is share them with the one person who would want to know them the most. I hate that she is missing all this, even the seemingly small things. They wouldn’t be small to her.

“Okay, Ivy,” I force through the painful lump in my throat. “Come and find me when you’re done and don’t forget to-”

“Wash my hands. I know, Daddy,” she interrupts and I know she’s rolling her eyes at me just like her mother used to do.

I leave her to finish and head towards Arthur’s room where he’s due to wake from his mid-morning nap. When I walk into his darkened room and draw back the curtains to let the warm sunlight filter through, he stirs. First, his eyes scrunch up against the brightness, making him look like a cute little mole. Then his plump, little lips purse in annoyance and I have to stop myself from touching his soft, wrinkled mouth with my fingertips. This grimace is followed by his limbs splaying wide, and his back arching in a full body stretch before he huffs out a cute sigh of irritation and rolls over to give me his back and block out the bright light. I swallow down my laugh at his stubborn refusal to wake. Arthur is one years old in a couple of weeks, and you’d swear he was a teenager when deprived of sleep.

This, right here, is the beauty of parenthood. It’s the incredible highs that fill you from within with an inexpressible joy, and the lowest of lows that make you question everything. In the space of a few minutes, my children have both made me laugh and then made me want to weep. That is the splendour of childhood innocence, and I want them to keep it for as long as possible because adulthood arrives soon enough.

I look down at my little boy as he fights against waking and I know I’ve done nothing to deserve the blessing of having him or Ivy, yet I’m determined to become worthy of them both.

“C’mon, Arthur. It’s time to wake up,” I soothe as I run a hand down his back. He grumbles but turns to curl into my touch, his eyes blinking open and looking up at me. I don’t hide the smile on my face as I beam down at him. My little boy needs to know his daddy is always pleased to see him.

“Shall we go to the beach? Whaddya think, Arty? Want to make a sandcastle with Daddy?”

“Da-Da,” his sleep covered voice babbles out. He lifts his arms to be picked up, and my heart expands then contracts in my chest at the sound, despite him not aiming it at me.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that idea. C’mon, little one. Let’s go and get-”

“You said not to call him Arty,” Ivy calls out from the doorway behind me.

“I didn’t call him Arty,” I reply with a smile, knowing that I did indeed let the nickname fall from my lips. My teasing smile is still on my face when I turn to look at her with her little brother in my arms.

“Yes. You did,” she says firmly, hands on her hips, head tilted to the side in a move that is all her mother.

“Noooo,” I tease. “You misheard me.” I wink, and she opens her mouth to continue arguing with me, but I cut her off with, “Did you wash your hands?”

And there’s her Princess Ivy eye roll at which I don’t bother to hide my small laugh. “Okay, okay, I was just asking. How about another question?”

She looks at me thoughtfully and nods, still unsure if I’m going to tease her.

“How about we pack a picnic and head to the beach?”

“Yay! I think that’s a grrrr-eat idea, Daddy,” she exclaims, dragging out the start of the word great just like her Uncle Iz would when he played with her.

“Da-Da,” Arthur adds to the conversation.

“I think your brother likes that idea too. How about Arthur helps me make the picnic, and you go into your room and find your swimsuit, beach towel and sun lotion?”

“Okay, Daddy,” she agrees before skipping away happily.

“C’mon, Arty,” I say conspiratorially. “I’ll slip in an extra cheese stick if you don’t tell your sister I just used that nickname again.”

“Da-Da.”

“Good boy. Us men have to stick together you know. She’ll have us wrapped around her little finger otherwise.”

Less than an hour later we have the perfect spot a short distance from the calm water’s edge. Our parasol shades Arthur from the sun as he bashes down the sandcastle I just made, while Ivy paddles in the crystal-clear shallows, looking for fish. It’s calm, peaceful and idyllic.

Having chosen a smaller, lesser known beach, that very few of the Ibiza tourist crowd bother to find, it’s only us here with a handful of young families and a group of three women sprawled out on towels about twenty-five feet away.

I lean back on my elbows, close my eyes and tip my head briefly towards the sun, listening to the sounds of Ivy splashing and Arthur babbling as he aggressively destroys my sand artistry with his fists.

A shadow passes over the sky, and I tilt my head and blink up at the woman whose silhouette is covering my head and torso, and is blocking out the warmth of the sun’s rays on my face.

“Excuse me, is this yours?” she asks, holding a pink beach ball towards me.

I flick my eyes from her sunhat obscured face to the item in her hand and recognise Ivy’s ball immediately.

“Yes, thanks, it sure looks like it,” I reply as I push up from the ground to stand, brushing sand from my backside and then my hands.

“It’s my little girl’s, but I swear it was in the bag just a moment ago.”

I turn, and motion towards the large beach bag filled to the brim with all the necessities you need for taking two small children to the beach, and sure enough, the ball is missing.

“Huh,” I say with disbelief, turning to face the woman again. “I guess it escaped. Thanks for returning it. I’m sure Ivy would have been a little miffed had it gone missing.”

And with that sentence, and likely hearing her name, she comes barrelling the few feet up from the sea to have a snoop at who I’m talking to and why a stranger is holding her ball.

“That’s mine,” she says proprietarily to the lady as she eyes her ball while holding on to the side of my leg, and her dual meaning isn’t lost on me. The defiance in her eyes is evident, and yet it’s an uncommon expression for Ivy. She loves meeting new people. Although, when my gaze goes back to the mocha skinned, and seductively curvy woman before us, wearing little more than a few triangles attached by strings, I can see why Ivy’s marking her territory and damn if it doesn’t make me proud.

If I were of the mindset to find anyone attractive, the woman before me would be sure to tempt a saint, but I’m not, and she doesn’t. Does that make me a saint? No, it makes me a married man in complete and utter love with his wife. Always have been, and always will be.

Laura Smiles.

“Say thank you, Ivy. The kind lady found it and was just returning it to you.”

Ivy continues to eye the newcomer like a potential threat but eventually forces out a reluctant, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, pretty girl,” the woman with the sinful curves and sweet smile says, handing over the pink ball to Ivy. When Ivy takes it, and the woman’s eyes catch mine, I see a smirk there. Almost like she knows my little girl is wary of her and the reason why she’s marking her territory is the threat this woman poses.

Her gaze runs briefly down my bare torso then lands on the hand cupping Ivy’s head, the one with my wedding ring, and lingers there.

“Well,” she says after a beat. “I’d best get back to my friends.” She motions with a flick of her hand behind her, and I’m more than aware that we’ve had an audience for this entire exchange but I don’t make it obvious, and ignore the eyes of the women boring into my back.

“It was nice meeting you, Ivy.” She bends at the waist to speak at eye-level with my daughter, then when she straightens she smiles wide and speaks directly to me. “And it was nice meeting you too, Ivy’s Dad.”

With a quick wink and a sultry smile, she turns on her heels and returns to her friends. I guess any other man would’ve watched her go, but I only have eyes for my jealous little girl as she stares daggers into the woman’s retreating form.

“C’mere, Princess Ivy.” I bend and gather my daughter up in my arms, and she latches onto me like a limpet. Her wet skin sticks to mine as all four of her limbs wrap around me. “How about Arthur and me come and join you on your fish hunt?”

Ivy eventually tears her eyes from the woman and focuses them on me, relief wiping away her annoyance once she realises she has me all to herself again.

“If we catch any, can we put them in my bucket and take them home?”

“If we catch any, how about we put them in your bucket, and we can watch them for a little while, but before we go, we return them to their home in the sea, so that they can be with their families?”

She thinks about my suggestion and smiles.

“That’s the best idea. Nobody should miss their family.”

“No, they shouldn’t,” I agree before kissing her cheek and setting her down on her feet. I walk over to Arthur, scoop him up on my hip and then take her hand. As we walk the couple of feet to the water’s edge, I decide to give my children what they both need. What I need.

“How about when we get home we give Nanna a call and see if she and Grampy would like to come and visit us?”

Ivy stops in her tracks, while Arthur wriggles on my hip just itching to get in the water.

“I think that’s the best idea ever,” my little girl says, turning back to give me a tight hug. “I’ve missed them so much.”

“Me too, Princess Ivy. Me too.”