Today, some mysterious alignment of the planets decided that I was to spend two whole quality hours with just my daughter. This doesn’t happen in our house. Ever.
My younger son, who is my rugby responsibility, had an away game in the next county an hour or so away and my eldest was training at home. I don’t do driving long distances and places I don’t know. I get lost and stressed and upset. If there is driving to be done, my husband does it. My eldest doesn’t like me to watch his rugby. He didn’t even want me to wait at the clubhouse. I was under strict instructions to just drop him off and leave. Result!
Two hours to go to the park! My daughter wanted to go rollerskating and have an ice cream.
But it rained. It rained and rained and rained. This isn’t slight-drizzle-put-your-hood-up-and-grin-and-bear-it-rain. This is serious RAIN. It was so wet, Teddy had to wear a coat.
My daughter goes to the coffee shop every Sunday. It’s the law. But she goes with my husband. I selflessly volunteered to take her instead. We dropped my son off and drove to the coffee shop at the supermarket. On the way there, we noticed the rain was turning to sleet and the temperature was dropping fast.
‘Sadly’ there was no toast at the coffee shop, so my daughter was forced to have a chocolate crispy Easter cake with Mini eggs on it. She also had a Fruit Shoot. Apparently, Daddy never lets her have a Fruit Shoot.
She bit into her cake and her tooth nearly came out. There was lots of blood, lots of chocolate and lots of laughter. We were both so happy sat there eating the cake and watching the sleet.
Then we did a bit of shopping and it was so relaxing. ‘Wow! This is what it’s like to only have one child!’ I thought. It’s amazing. It’s peaceful and we can have a conversation. Yeah, I know only children are noisy and untidy and have strops too, but for me it was like a revelation. It was like the best morning ever.
Driving home, we looked at the rugby ground and saw no boys of under 11 size. It was 50 minutes since we dropped my son off. So we pulled into the rugby ground and found a lot of very cold, very wet boys inside the clubhouse. Apparently, the tears had started, so they’d given up and gone inside. They might be big, tough, rugby-playing 11 year olds, but when it’s really cold, they always cry.
So my two hours as a mum of one was reduced to 50 minutes. I picked up my soaking wet son and took him home, turned the heating up to full blast, put the filthy kit in the washing machine and stuck him in a hot bath.
Meanwhile, my younger son was crying in another county, so cold he was warming his hands on a cup of hot chocolate while the game continued. I hated not being there for him, I wanted to be able to warm him up and make him happy, not wait an hour or more for him to get home and get dry and warm.
Being a mum of one was fun for a few minutes, but I’m a mum of three. Always have been, always will be.