SPRING FEVER

Being a neurotic, hysterical, doom-laden mother does have its advantages, although I have to say I can’t think of any right now. I rarely leave the children to go abroad, but when I do I am convinced that our goodbyes will be our last. I don’t just fear the plane will crash – I know it will. I have a filing compartment in my brain that has stored every tragedy and disaster that there has ever been and I weigh up the likelihood of any of it happening to us.

So, we’re off to Paris for a few days, some friends are moving furniture from their flat and we have the van to help them. Hooray. The children will go to Granny and the Father of the Children and I get Paris in the springtime, delicious food, and beautiful everything. Deep down I’m so excited I can hardly breathe, but I need to deal with the anxiety first.

I check out our channel-crossing options, and all seem terrifyingly dangerous:

• The Tunnel - I don’t fancy travel seven hundred leagues under the sea. What happens if the train stops, and water starts pouring in? No, definitely not.
• Hovercraft - too sick-making and claustrophobic.
• Ferry - it takes just over an hour and I could always sit next to the lifeboats on deck. Yup, I shall put my faith in P & O.

Now all I have to do is get everything organised. Arrange three social lives during our absence to give Granny a break, and to keep them happy. Find someone to feed the cat. Buy food because Granny can’t be expected to remember the vagaries of their eating habits. Make sure their clothes are half-decent because Granny doesn’t like the ragamuffin look, to avoid comments like…

“Don’t you have a nice blouse Flo could wear?”

Oh, and tidy the house up, so that if we never return the true extent of our slovenly lives will not be exposed.

Then there’s the packing. Bobby wants to take every one of his toys.

“That’s fine,” I say, as we fill two bin liners.

Also, mustn’t forget his blanket, his favourite Ninja Turtle, his peanut butter and enough Heinz Tomato Soup for the duration. Flo packs a neat backpack - half clothes, half Beanie Babies.

Max arrives with one small plastic bag containing a toothbrush, a pair of pants and “The Hobbit”. I manage to convince him he needs a bit more than that for three days.

We drive over to Granny’s first thing. I‘ve done so much packing, shopping and organising for everyone I feel like I’ve already walked to Paris and back. I haven’t brushed my hair and can’t remember if I’ve done my teeth, I certainly never got to the make-up moment of the morning. My travelling clothes are pyjama-like, chosen for comfort and safety. I know I can swim in pyjamas. I passed my life saving test wearing some in a swimming pool near Marble Arch at the age of 12.

We wave goodbye. The children barely look up: they are overjoyed because Granny has Sky TV and are completely unfazed by our departure. Climbing up into the van I congratulate myself on not crying. We reach theroad and I am astonished to realise that I’m feeling happy and full of the joys of spring on this lovely sunny day. Maybe I’m getting more relaxed, maybe the seemingly everlasting side effects of early motherhood are finely wearing off. The don’t-go-too-near-the-edge vertigo of it all is slipping away and I will emerge imminently, calm and serene. As we clonk our way into the bowels of the ferry I begin to believe it is possible, which is thrilling, but I’m not taking any risks - you’ll find me up on deck.

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

Read Claire's previous diary