My ex takes my children away from me tomorrow, for a week. They will be 1,400 miles away in Ibiza (22 hours by car says Mr Google, though no traffic information, funnily enough). This makes me feel sad, odd, guilty, sad again, anxious. Also, if I'm honest, a tiny bit happy.
I know I shouldn't admit that last thing. I AM mostly very sad that I won't see them for seven days, and extremely concerned that my husband takes good care of them (as he frequently has trouble taking care of himself). I worry that, as last year, he will leave my youngest merrily floating out to sea on a lilo. Or take his eye off one of them and lose them on the busy beach. Or not sunscreen them up. Forget their hats. Encourage them to jump off high walls. And the like.
But I have to remind myself that they are 10 and 12 now. One's almost a teenager, for God's sakes. And I think they'll be ok. More than that - they'll have a great time. I have instructed them to text or email me every other day. It will be interesting to see if they do. I will be waiting with baited breath for their boysy words, full of sun and swimming and ice cream and fish. I'll savour each word like a kitkat chunky. Treasured messages in virtual bottles from my loved ones.
And - the boys being away means that I can go away. Which I am doing, with the boyf. Nothing as glam as Ibiza mind - we are setting off for the noise and excitement of ...er... Porlock, where I'm going to meet the boyf's 89 year old father. Who has dementia.
And we'll be camping.