If another well-meaning friend suggests we spend late August in a "luxury tent" in the South of France, I'll tell them where they can bung the brochure. Why, just because I have three kids, am I obliged to slum it on holiday? It's as if once we've procreated, pampering becomes a foreign land.

One friend who has previously marooned herself in the heavenly Maldives has booked her annual holiday in a caravan in Cornwall "for her three-year-old". Sacrificing sun, service and a little excess of comfort for your offspring is a very British disease. The French don't do it. Just as French toddlers sit at linen table clothes fiddling with the carte de vins, rather than reverting en familie to a burger bar and chocolate milkshakes all round, so they share luxury hotels.

At Hotel Normandie in Deauville, I spent a wonderful weekend popping into the bar and out of the sauna. Meanwhile, the eight-year-old was at the kids' club (and the children's restaurant afterwards, with three-course meals and waiter service); the babies were in the nursery being watched over by women in white coats. There are similar hotels all over the continent - a friend goes to one in the Algarve every year. It's far cheaper to splash out on a bit of pampering when your children are small and can share your luxury suite.

There are other cross-generational holiday possibilities. On Mark Warner holidays, you can have a lounge around or a sailing lesson while they play organised hide and seek. Several companies, such as The Villa Agency, have gorgeous villas ample enough for the most fertile family, most with daily maids. The more exotic the destination - such as Sri Lanka or the Carribean - the more likely that you'll also get a cook.

Perhaps I'm just a wicked parent, but family holidays are meant to be just that - for the family. I'm going where we can all indulge ourselves.

If you have any experiences of travelling with that you would like to share, email: Deabirkett@cs.com.