I shall be on my own for the next couple of days. My Soon-to-Be Ex is taking the boys to see some friends up North.
Not for me the sudden opening of the bedroom door in the morning, with two little faces beaming as they jump into my bed and push their icy-cold feet into my tummy.
Not for me the whining and whinging about whose turn it is to hold the remote at breakfast time (yes, I allow them to watch the TV during breakfast, whip me if you must).
Not for me growing ten arms like Kali, the Hindu goddess (and fangs too), as I warm up pancakes, pour milk, mix Nesquik, make myself a cup of tea, do the washing-up, open the fingers of Pest n.1's hand grabbing Pest n.2's hair, help find the remote, show Pest n.1 what cereal we have, help find the remote again, throw away my cup of tea because the milk has gone sour, help find the remote, resist the temptation of killing them both...
Not for me the post-breakfast ordeal of washing hands and private bits, brushing milk teeth and finding pants and socks (I have enough trouble finding my own, thanks).
Not for me finding something to do for the day, a little food for their brain and plenty of action for their bodies.
Not for me the dinner time, arguing over whose turn it is to choose whether to have chicken or beef, and which vegetables are less likely to make them sick (beetroot is an all-round winner).
Not for me the bathing time, reading-a-story time, and getting up in the night if one or two beds get wet.... It is rather unpleasant to have a child arrive into your bed soaking wet and smelling of urine: I wash and change him into fresh PJs before allowing them in.
Alone!
Much as I love my children, is it really bad to feel a small wave of relief and a secret joy, looking forward to the next few days?
