Sometimes I fantasise about running away.
I had an exciting and chaotic life before the children were born.
D and I travelled, giving up jobs and living out of backpacks for a year, then doing long-haul trips twice or three times a year when we had a fat, double income.
Before I met D, I kept life very changey. I like to shake things up and was rarely in a job for more than 18 months. I fell in-and-out of relationships, changed towns, travelled on my own.
Life was exciting and I walked many roads.
I miss it. I miss being spontaneous. I make do with moving furniture around.
I wasn’t very happy. I was lonely and needy. And I was looking for what I found. Security. Love.
I have a wonderful, hands-on, warm and funny husband that I love with all my heart and hope to be beside until we’re baggy and white haired.
I have kids I adore with a strength and passion I never expected.
And a beautiful home that fits us all well.
I couldn’t be luckier or happier. I lead a very charmed life.
And yet.
I still fantasise about running away. About bar work in Paris. Or reading on sugar-sand beaches. I fantasise about nights in clubs. About picking fruit, slim and weather beaten. Smoking and sipping wine. Sea swimming on Greek Islands. About having no responsibilities. No obligations. No ties.
But of course it’s just a daydream. I won’t do it. Because I could leave my family as easily as I could cut off my own head.
I just indulge myself sometimes. Imagining the sun on my face. Some other future.
D and I still have some travel left in us. Some lazy drifting through new towns, villages and beaches.
Perhaps when we retire. When the girls are grown women.
What a golden future. Perhaps I’ll get the atlas down and start planning some of those trips.