This is a bit controversial, I know, but I have wondered on occasion during these last eleven months, should I have been the one to leave?
But could I leave? Am I the sort of person who could walk away from her children? Not that I'm saying I would have walked and never looked back - just swapped positions with Sean. Then he could be the one who is stuck doing the same old thing day in, day out. He could deal with the bickering and fighting and snotty noses and scraped knees, teachers and tea dates and homework and wrestle the remote control out of a seven year old's hand. So he would be the one who couldn't even go to the shops without planning it like a military operation and arguing because one wants to go to Morrisons because they do the chocolate spread she likes and the other wants to go to Tesco because they do the strawberry bon bons he likes.
This weekend coming is a case in point. I'm booked on a writer's convention, my first. I've contributed to both anthologies and this is a fabulous opportunity to put faces to names and pimp myself out like Huggy Bear. Unfortunately, he has arbitrarily decided he won't have them as he had planned to because I forgot to put a couple of things in their bags last time and sent them with a blow up airbed with a hole in it (which oddly enough I wasn't aware of because it's been in the airing cupboard since last summer).
So it is at times like this, even though I know I never would because they're my children, it does cross my mind how wonderful it would be to pee alone, go to the shops alone, sit on the sofa alone, drive the car alone, basically breathe alone - just like he does.
It's just a shame that I can't as quickly or easily forget that I'm a parent - unlike some people.