It’s not that I don’t love my children – of course I do, lights of my life, apples of my eye, fruit of my loins.
And it’s not that I don’t miss them terribly when they’re away on holiday with their Other Parent. It’s just that … well I don’t really.
This year, for the first time I can honestly say I’m glad to see the back of them.
Not that I don’t feel a pang when Youngest phones after the first week to see how I am. But when she says she wishes I was joining them – five kids, a dog and sundry adults on a boat moored on a riverbank going nowhere, and I say I wish I was too, it’s actually a big fat lie. It sounds like hell. I’d rather chew off one of my legs.
Whereas at home, all is peace and calm. Just me and Biggie Smalls, with no-one to worry about, cook for, clean up after, nag.
The kitchen and the white goods of tyranny are out of bounds anyway as the builders fix my gaping wound of a ceiling, so a glorious week of living in my bedroom ensues.
I sit in bed with everything I need in reach – laptop for watching box sets, microwave for meals, cat for squeezing. One night I don’t even bother to microwave and dine on taco chips and Peroni. Bliss. The only downside? They’re back tomorrow.