I released my husband into the wild on Saturday, setting him free to enjoy the cultural delights of London town – specifically the boxing match at the O2. I don’t know who was boxing, and nor do I care. “Train Beer” had been purchased, and so I was expecting a solid 12 hours of drinking to result in an exceptionally hungover chap.
I knew better than to judge, however, as I recently surprised him with the news that I would also be fucking off to London for a night on the sauce, leaving him to commit both children to bed having fed and bathed them. To his credit, he arranged for his parents to take Mouse for sleepover, so I only had to wrestle with the small, noisy child. I’ve done nothing of the sort to lessen the blow when it’s my turn to roam the gold-paved streets.
It’s silly, I’m used to it just being Mummy ‘n’ Moo, Moo ‘n’ Mummy for three days of our week, but a Saturday feels different. Saturdays are for our little family, where even if we separate off during the day, we always have breakfast and dinner together. We bumbled along quite nicely all afternoon, and I managed to whizz us up some leftover sausage surprise pasta with Moo pinned to my hip. The surprise element was derived from there being a noticeable lack of anything sausagey in it, although I did get excited that a flaccid mushroom might be a rogue piece of stray meat (it wasn’t).
Anyway, having pissed around watching Moo feed herself a yoghurt for about three hours, I very keenly felt the absence of Mouse and Drunkard. Look at the state of it! Do you ever stand back, catch your breath and realise that what a situation needs is a hand clapping, “right then” Mary Poppins, and that role falls solely to you? To all you Mary’s out there – and I know many of you – you’re bloody heroes.