Never mind the vinaigrette, last night I felt totally overcome with an overwhelming and heavy sense of responsibility. I looked around the table at my three children. They were all happily eating, arguing over who should have laid out the napkins and whether Jesus had created my hair (actually he didn’t, Rodolfo Valentin did).
Suddenly I thought; “Help, their whole happiness, health and lives are in my hands.”
I think in part I am feeling like this because next week I go away. I have one more luxury spa to visit in the Caribbean (it’s such a tough assignment) and am going to spend the week being pampered and also finishing the book which I said I would get to my agent by the end of April.
Most sane people would be busy packing their bikinis, waxing their legs and shouting ‘yippee’ at the thought of a week in the Caribbean. Not me. As I walked into my son’s room this morning and smelled his yummy, gorgeous smell my only thought was “I can’t live without this for a week”.
But of course I can, and I will, and the children will be fine with ‘Mami’ Chantal and ‘Papi’ Gilbert who spoil them and adore them and do all the things with them I will never do like go to McDonalds, drink Coca-Cola and watch Spiderman in French.
I know from past experience that once I get on that plane and start thinking about the book my angst diminishes, but that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with now.
My husband meanwhile is in Delhi, hanging out with my best friend. He helpfully emailed me this morning to tell me she “has not one wrinkle and looks great”. So is the answer to staying young living in India, surrounded by younger men (she works on an Indian version of a FHM-style Mag) and not having three children? If so, it’s too late for me.
I’ll just have to accept my wrinkles and go and smell my son’s pyjamas.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007