I love my alone time. I love to potter, to read, to endlessly cycle through the absurd amount of social media platforms, to re-watch The West Wing, to watch any of the Lord of the Rings films, to eat fish that isn’t cod…
All the things (oh the sacrifice) that Husband doesn’t particularly like or don’t fit in when Whirling Dervish is with us.
For his part, when I’m out/ away, Husband can watch all the 80s sitcoms he wants, listen to 80s music, repeat the script along to every episode of Blackadder and eat mushrooms (food of the devil).
I have three full days to myself as Husband is away. When I get out of bed (this post is brought to you from under my duvet, waiting for a house elf to bring me breakfast in bed, so far, nothing) I can not put the telly on, I can jump up and down to Metallica. I can and will be out until stupid o’clock for cocktails.
But I will miss my Husband and I will miss not catching up with Whirling Dervish for three days. By the time I see her on Monday night, today’s activities will be a dim and distant memory (her excuse is her age, mine will be the cocktails). I make a point of being interested in her life away from us – What she does with her Mum, her Stepdad’s family, her friends, at school.
As she grows up I don’t want her to feel awkward about the different boxes of her life, or even think of them in that way. She’s one girl. (Plus of course, I’m dead nosey).
So I’ll miss her and miss hearing about the hundreds of things she’s done in these three days at a hundred miles an hour.
If you tell anyone that I think that, that my shrug it off or not even mention it to anyone exterior isn’t quite true, I’ll box your ears.
No sign of that house elf with breakfast yet.