On a trip to Byron Bay, I was followed by a young woman.

It was our first holiday as a family of four – daughter 8 months old, son 5 – and the word ‘holiday’ and all that it conjures (sleeping in, cocktails by the pool, reading a novel) is best replaced by ‘change of scene’. As anyone with young children knows, a holiday with kids involves doing the same care work you would at home, only it costs more and you have less help.    

I first noticed the young woman at the Byron Bay foreshore. I was sitting on the grass in front of the lifesaving club, attention split between my son down on the sand and my daughter clambering over me, smearing gobs of banana on my pants.  The young woman strolled past with a friend, wrinkling her nose at my sticky attire.

“I doubt I’ll ever be a mum,” she said loudly, turning to her companion, “but if I am, I’m going to take some pride in my appearance.”

I watched as she waltzed down to the shore, jumped in a sea kayak and paddled out towards the horizon.

A few days later, she turned up again. It was pouring, and we’d taken the kids to the Byron Bay library for something to do. As my husband read “World’s Weirdest Bugs” to our son, I searched for somewhere to change a nappy – the bathrooms were Out of Order and locked. In a quiet corner I stripped my girl down and tried to wrangle her into a fresh nappy as she squawked and wriggled, chubby legs kicking. I felt a presence behind me.

The young woman said nothing, but there was that wrinkled nose again: yuk. Moving away, she selected a book from the latest release shelf, stretched out on a comfortable couch and immersed herself in the story.

Must be nice to have no-one but yourself to consider, I thought darkly, deftly zipping up my daughter’s onesie as she rolled out of reach.

Later that day, the rain starting to clear, we decided to go whale-watching. My son was excited at the prospect of seeing a whale IRL, and I’d read that the Byron Bay Lighthouse was a good place to spot a humpback on their northern migration. We piled into the hire car, me at the wheel, and drove up to the headland.

By the time we arrived at the lighthouse carpark, my daughter was fast asleep, and not a single car space was free.

“You take him – I’ll come back for you,” I told my husband as he unbuckled our son. To the soundtrack of baby snores, I drove down the hill, turned around and drove back up. My son raced towards the car.

“We saw a whale!” he yelled, his little face alight. “A real life whale!”

“Wow! Amazing!”

My husband and I grinned at each other, then a car behind us beeped – we were holding up traffic.

As our son was buckled back in beside his slumbering sister, I glanced out the window and there she was again, the woman, power walking past with a friend, young skin gleaming with perspiration. She pointed at me.

“I just saw that mum drive up, down and back up again – she never even got out to look at the view!” she scoffed. “I mean, there are whales literally right there! Some people need to open their eyes to beauty.”

The friend nodded in agreement.

“And how could you drive up here, in the era of climate change?” she went on. “I mean, she has children – doesn’t she have any care for their future? If I’m ever a mum I will never drive.”

If I see her again I’m going to say something, I thought.

And – what d’you know? – I did.

Everyone was starving, the rain was back, and we found ourselves sheltering in Miss Margarita’s Mexican Cantina, largely because they had highchairs and food that our children *might* eat. The highchairs were both saturated and strapless – my husband and I took turns holding our baby steady as she attempted to shovel cheese and black beans into her mouth, the floor beneath the highchair quickly resembling a compost bin.

We shared a weary smile. “What do they say about having kids? That you’ll never enjoy a meal again?

Then: there she was. Sitting in the corner with a beer, reading her novel, shooting me a dirty look.       

I patted the adjacent seat. Join me.

“Oh no…I’m good thanks, I’m reading…”

I insist.

She brought her beer over and sat beside me, my younger self.

I know what it looks like, I said. You see pooey nappies and banana-covered pants and no time for novels and whales and kayaks. But here’s what you don’t see.

My son was colouring in his illustrated placemat, deep in concentration, the picture a surfer in a sombrero looking out at the waves. I tapped him on the shoulder and he looked up at me. My grey-blue eyes, his father’s ears. A fleck of salsa on his chin.

“Are you having a good time?”

“It’s the best,” he said with a little sigh of satisfaction, as the baby rubbed avocado into her hair. “The best holiday ever.”