“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” says my mother cheerily on the doorstep. I have just dropped off The Toddler, the border terrorist, the puppy, several overnight bags and the football and tennis kit. I am off to London to spend two whole days and nights away without the children.
Needless to say, I have spent the last few days planning my trip and drafting a detailed itinerary. There are the inevitable school pick-ups, followed by a quick snack in the car, after-school clubs and various homework instructions. As always, they are relaxed and say, “After all, we’ve done this before.” As I drive off, I hear a scream and glance in my mirror to see the puppy racing off with The Toddler’s beloved blanket. I remind myself to return armed with a large bottle of whisky for Granny and Grandpa.
The train pulls into Gillingham and my heart beats with excitement. I can read my newspaper, a copy of Hello and listen to my Ipod, with absolutely no interruption. As we roll through the countryside, I relax into the realms of pre-motherhood. Suddenly, I realise I have forgotten to tell my mother not to put butter in my daughter’s sandwiches. I fumble for my mobile and put in a call. She is out. Oh goodness, where has she gone? What has happened to The Toddler? Has the border terrorist made a mad dash across the fields to escape the puppy? I leave a long message reminding her about the sandwiches and ask her to call when she gets back.
A nice lady sits down beside me with her three small children. She apologises for the usual child-like noises. I reassure her and tell her I have children of my own. In fact, half an hour later, with my newspaper lying unread on the table, I realise I have talked of nothing else. She smiles politely as I neurotically tell her about my trip and how my mother is looking after the children. “I’m sure she has just gone out to get some milk,” she says as I relay the answer phone message to her.
Finally, and no doubt with much relief for my fellow mother beside me, we pull in to Waterloo. I am overwhelmed by the amount of smartly dressed people dashing through the station in a desperate hurry. I feel a little lost pulling my little wheelie case behind me. I should be carrying a sign that reads, “Please take care. Dorset mother in town.” I find myself a taxi and give the address of my husband’s office. I am in need of a familiar face to help launch me into London life. I check my mobile. My three children’s faces peer up at me from the screen and the phone beeps with a text message from my mother. “All fine. Hope you’re having a lovely time.” The friendly taxi driver asks where I’m from. “Dorset,” I say proudly. “And, have I mentioned I’ve got three small children aged ….”
