This morning at approximately 6:45am (I didn't actually stir enough to sit up properly in bed and confirm what the blinking digital numbers on the clock radio read, given I was still half asleep and a touch grumpy about being abandoned if truth be told), the husband departed for five to six days of hedonistic camping at what is known as the mother of all music festivals, 'Glastonbury'.
Though it's true that I technically gave him my blessing to go (long time readers of this blog will know it's the husbands 'high holiday' - his favourite time of year - eclipsing even Christmas and his birthday), this morning the reality kind of hit and I couldn't help feeling mildly sorry for myself and if I'm honest, a touch jealous.
There was a time when the husband and I would take off for fun adventures such as this together. In fact, we have the tendency to be as naughty as each other at times, and hence, are very adept at making merry as a twosome - especially when relieved from the yoke of childcare.
Nonetheless, he who cares the most wins, and as I have declined to go to Glastonbury for the past several years now (for reasons varying from, "I'll only go if I have a backstage, VIP pass" to "I"ll feel ancient set amongst all those revelling 18 year olds" to the honest predicament of "Who the heck is going to watch our children for 3-6 days solo") the husband has been 'allowed' to go off and relieve his adolescence on a yearly basis, with the proviso that he better darn well be amazingly nice to me afterwards and make it up to me in some way.
At any rate, for some reason this year I really had a hankering to go. Maybe it's because U2 are headlining, or because I quite fancy some crazy hijinks with my mates in a field full of clowns and idiots, or perhaps because I SO DON'T fancy the next several days which stretch out endlessly before me...days of child-full-ness and no release or distraction from the "three meals, bum-wiping, bathing, teeth-brushing, tidying up, tucking in" monotony.
I do love being a mother...I do. But sometimes, just sometimes I feel I could be a far better specimen with the aid of an English speaking au pair or foreign speaking nanny. Motherhood is supposed to teach you patience, but I wouldn't be surprised if I were reincarnated as a mother of eight next time round, as I still haven't learned how to s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w down and do things in 'toddler time'.
I clearly haven't learned either how to do things with good grace. This morning as the husband snuck out the door, barely capable of disguising his utter glee at being let loose for the biggest party this country puts on it could be argued, he bent over and kissed me tenderly on the cheek.
"I love you" he whispered.
"Harrumpth" I grunted, and rolled over.