I want to let you in on a little secret. Actually, it’s a pretty big secret, because I feel a little embarrassed about it. But it’s not a ‘do-not-tell-anyone’ secret like the time I got so hideously drunk off five beers and spewed in front of my son, or a ‘please-don’t-judge-me’ secret like the time I used a tea-towel tied up with a ribbon as a nappy and took my son to Coles’ to buy nappies (I was totally and ashamedly out), or a ‘what’s-wrong-with-me-medically’ secret where I laughed so hard I weed my pants a little moment. No this is a secret that I want to tell you because I don’t think I should feel embarrassed about it. So instead, I want to share this secret so other people can say: “Yo, Ali… I’m in exactly the same boat. Let’s be mates and freaking rule this world.”
This Sunday, I am, as in ME, I am heading to sunny Queensland ON MY OWN for three days for a work trip. This means, TWO NIGHTS + THREE DAYS, WITHOUT MY SON.
So what, you say. Well, it’s a big freaking WHAT for me. Since my son was born in April 2013, over two years ago, I have not spent one night away from him. Ever. My husband has, heaps of times. But me, no. That kid comes on every road trip, plane trip, car trip, supermarket trip, stack-n-trip with me.
Go on. Have a crack. Have a giggle. Sigh away. Shake your head. Tsk me. Pray for me. Pity me. Cradle me.
I am fully aware of this fact. I see my friends parents take their kids for days, overnight, while they go on dates, party, head out on girls’ weekends. It’s so awesome that they get to do this regularly, as their parents live nearby.
It’s not so easy for my hubby and I, who don’t have family in close vicinity and our work shifts sometimes mean that we pass like ships in the night.
It’s actually not a huge problem for me though (apart from not wanting to admit it to all these cool cat mums who get regular weekends away with their favourite grown up people). I adore hanging out with my kid, we do everything together and we have travelled and experienced so much together already. I mean, just this week my son did a POO IN THE TOILET. This was so exciting for both of us, I would have hated to have missed it. Just tonight he asked if he could brush my hair, and he did, and it was lovely. Imagine if I missed that moment.
So come Sunday, I will be getting on that plane, on my own. My first plane trip without a kid in over two years. I might read a book. Actually, I’m just going to sit. Sit really still. So still that the air host will need to check my pulse.
When I arrive at the hotel with the pool, I’m not going to rearrange the furniture to fit in a port-a-cot or move display items to a cupboard or request a high chair from reception. I’m going to lay face down on that king sized bed and laugh so fucking loud people will think there’s a party in my room.
Of course I’m going to miss my son, my pooch and my hubster. I’m totally going to miss seeing that toddler poo in the toilet. I’m going to miss the 5.15am wake up call with a truck shoved in my eye socket. I’m fully going to miss Jimmy Giggle. I’m going to miss the word ‘no’, the alfalfa sprout-looking hair that won’t sit down on the top of my kid’s head, carrying the balance bike/doll pusher/scooter/twin baby dolls/tonka truck/dinosaur back home from the park. I might even miss the child lock on our cutlery drawer. I will totally miss my hairy husband.
But it’s only for a couple of days (of bliss, sorry work).
I somehow have a feeling someone’s going to miss me even more.