“Are you single?” Asked my two year old, as she turned on the bathroom tap.
“No.” I thought sadly. I’m about as far from single as it’s possible to be. My days of being young, free and single are firmly behind me and I am officially old, captive and taken.
But as she chattered away to me, washing her hands, playing in the water and wandering off to get herself dressed, her question sent me back to a time when the answer would have been different.
I thought about the holidays I used to have. Hopping on a last minute flight to New York one year and trekking through the jungle beside the Orinoco Delta in Venezuela the next.
That’s not to mention multiple trips to the Southern Hemisphere. I’ve swam with sharks in South Africa, travelled around New Zealand more times than a resident Orca and spent a lovely couple of weeks exploring the East coast of Australia.
And don’t get me started on the drinking. Anybody that knows me now would never believe that when I first met my husband I could drink him, and pretty much anybody else, under the table.
I can even pinpoint the last time I got drunk. I mean properly drunk, not the sort of tipsy I get these days after a couple of glasses of red wine.
I mean travelling on a boat along a canal in Amsterdam with 200 other water polo players, until the boat sank and we had to walk to the nearest pub to carry on drinking. That sort of drunk.
I know it was the last time I got drunk because I played in a water polo tournament there the weekend before I got married. I ended up with a thick lip ready for the wedding.
Of course, I should have got drunk at the wedding, but wedding days never work out as planned. I had a couple of glasses of champagne while it was free, but obviously didn’t have any money on me for the bar.
Nobody offered to buy me a drink other than Uncle Leonard and I’m not the type to ask. So I hugely appreciated the G&T that Uncle Leonard bought me, more than he realises.
But nonetheless, I remained sober. And as it turned out, that was my last chance.
By the end of our honeymoon, I was feeling decidedly odd. I had a fair idea what that meant. So I went easy on the cocktails on our last night in Sydney.
And of course, having arrived home from Sydney at about 11.30 pm on Sunday night, it wasn’t until I got up for work on the Monday morning that I had time to do a pregnancy test, dropping the news on hubby’s toes as I ran out of the door to cycle to the train station.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
These days, I have responsibilities and commitments coming out of my ears. There’s the toddler, the baby, the dog, the cat, my work and of course, even a terrible wife like me needs to find time to acknowledge that hubby lives in the house as well.
I looked back at Libby who was still chattering away. By now she had her top on inside out, her trousers back to front and her slippers on the wrong feet.
“So are you single mum?” She persisted.
“Yes”. I said firmly.
Just in case she’s there when Johnny Wilkinson asks me, I wouldn’t want her to ruin the moment.