There comes a time in your parenting life when you come to terms with never wanting to see a labour ward ever again, right?
When you know you know, that’s what they say isn’t it?
Well, I swanned off last week to Costa Brava on a press trip and to be completely honest I wasn’t going in the beginning. Firstly I thought the email was a piss take and then, of course, the realisation of being a mother of four kicked in.
There wasn’t a chance I’d get someone to take all of them for four nights and five days. Right?
Then to my complete and utter surprise Joe just blurted out ‘you should go’.
Surely he wasn’t offering to take time off work to stay home with the kids.
He muttered stuff about opportunities like this only happening once, that it couldn’t really be that hard to get three kids to school before nine and that he could do with a little break himself.
I nodded along but secretly I was dying inside.
A little break?
Whatever you say, Joe.
I hopped on that plane last Monday quicker than you can say boo and I didn’t look back.
He held his own through every single phone call.
All was grand when I came home Friday.
He scrubbed the house. He did all the washing. He gave Ellen a run for her money. He cooked three of four nights. The kids were all still alive.
Chap swore it was a breeze.
Then he arrived in from work Monday evening.
“C’mere I was looking up vasectomies again, thinking about booking in for real this time.”
**FALL’S ON THE FLOOR IN A HEAP**
“Was last week REALLY that bad?”
Today he swans in the door with an excited look on his face.
“We’re not having any more kids.”
“I’m booked in at 11.15am on XXth October, any chance you will you drop me over?”