Parenting is a hard job, one with no paid leave, promotion prospects or sick pay. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most rewarding journey, clear of regret, but at times a break can make the everyday routine more like fun than forced.
This weekend I shrugged off my mother cape and pulled on my spanx and headed into the big city to see much loved friends. I packed a toothpaste and comfy knickers for the next day and delighted in reading a book in the relative calm of the train journey.
I sat in a bar in the middle of the day and sipped at a clear glass of rose, ate a meal without counting the carbs, laughed till I cried without checking to see where my children were playing.
I relaxed in a way that as a mother to three felt almost abnormal.
It was heavenly.
I stayed up late, chatting, reliving my youth. I ate pizza swarming in mushrooms without seeing my children look on in disgust.
I slept in, till gone nine o’clock.
I didn’t miss my babies but regaled my friends with tales of what twin boy had been up to, shared photos of my beautiful toddler and boasted, with tears threatening to spill, of my incredibly strong seven year old girl.
Then I came home, calmer, happier, keen to bury myself under my children, smother them with kisses, play their childish games and share stories of the last couple of days.
I am a mother, I am still me, and I needed this weekend