SOMETIMES I don’t think I’m like other mothers.
It’s the start of the long Bank Holiday weekend here in Ireland today and I’m looking forward to it greatly.
Not because I’m going anywhere or have any great plans for a barbecue (an Irish one, under an umbrella in the pissing rain, obvs) or am jetting off on holidays.
But because the baby is going on HIS holidays. For three glorious days and two glorious nights. Without me.
I’m literally almost sick with excitement.
He’s being brought down to Wexford by his Nana and Gaga from Sunday until Tuesday night and I’m not going with him.
I’m staying at home. In the silence. With my book. And my laptop. And my HOT cup of coffee and MY programmes on the TV. Three days with no Bala-fucking-mory. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.
(Here though, while we’re on the subject. What IS the story in Balamory? How come they’re all single yet can afford big massive houses? How does Josie Jump make a living? Or Archie for that matter? There’s something amiss about that place, I’m telling you.)
Anyway, so yes, The Beast is off on his holliers and I can’t wait. And I can’t help but wonder (Carrie Bradshaw reference) if that makes me the worst mother in the world?
I’ll miss him, of course. I adore him, of course. But I need the break.
More than that though, I WANT the break. That’s the crucial difference, I think, between me and other Mams that I talk to. They all agree that a break is necessary but many of them don’t look forward to one.
If they go out for a night they say things like ‘Oh I suppose I’ll enjoy it when I get there’, whereas I’m almost psychotic with excitement at even the THOUGHT of a night off.
Other Mams rush home from a day at the shops to gather up their little ones, whereas I dawdle.
Other Mams curse traffic jams if it makes them a little late picking up the baby from Granny’s house – I relish the extra few minutes of peace.
Reading back over that, I sound like a monster.
I’m not really, I swear. Well, ok, I am probably a BIT of a bitch, but I do actually love my son. Truly.
I just find motherhood to be very full on. You’re always on. It really is a 24-hour day when you’re a mother. And sometimes I get a bit touched out. And I just need to clock off.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out, when I wave my son off without a backward glance. I wonder if I SHOULD feel something more, miss him more, think about him more, be more like the other mothers. Sometimes I wonder if I really AM a bad mother. Perhaps I am.
But then other times I think that maybe I’m not so bad and that enjoying the break, as opposed to just tolerating it, isn’t the worst thing in the world. And I wonder if perhaps, sneakily, all those other mothers wish they could be a little bit more like me.
Minus the fat arse though, naturally.