Mr & Mrs S.H.I.T. have just been away for a weekend in Brighton.

As much as Brighton is a fantastic place to visit, this is not about that because, let’s face it, we could have been anywhere. The Premier Inn along the road from our house. The garden shed. A quick kip in the loo in Starbucks.

Because we were alone. Sans enfants.

We had TIME.

You may have forgotten what that dirty four letter word means, but just to jog your memory, it basically means you have nobody else to think about. You can get up whenever you please. You don’t have to answer a barrage of questions at 5.45am, such as whether or not Rapunzel might have nits, and how she would get them out.

You have papers. Which you read. Every page.

You can mooch. Mooching is the act of wandering around aimlessly with nowhere you have to be, possibly stopping for a coffee or maybe even a Bloody Mary, or two. Because you can. And you do not have to have lunch in Pizza Express.

So we had all this TIME. And we could actually talk to each other, have proper grown up discussions without constant interruptions. Now that’s not as easy as it sounds because we’re unaccustomed to this conversation thing.

Blissful time to read the Sunday papers

We’ve got the usual grumblings of everyday issues down to a fine art. How was your day? The dishwashers on the blink again. Council tax needs paying. Did you remember to phone your mum back? Why do you keep making that annoying noise when you eat?

But when you’ve got proper, one on one, grown up conversation to indulge in, what do we talk about?


I was determined not to discuss the children all weekend, so I started to spout on about anything that was on my mind. Now that really could be any number of random topics seeing as the motherhead’s browser has 2057 tabs open at any one time.

I could see Mr S.H.I.T. glazing over early doors at dinner as his hand started to reach for his phone. “Oh no, you don’t”, I shrieked. I decided it would be a phone-free zone when we were ‘talking.’

Perhaps I was putting too much emphasis on this communication thing.

So once I relaxed from enforcing conversation, and I stopped talking incessantly at him, we started to naturally chat. Not bicker. Actually converse and laugh like we used to.

And we realised that we do actually still really like each other. Quite a lot as it happens.

It helped that I wasn’t feeling angry. I realised that I’m harbouring some form of anger at home 95% of the time. But without the stress of bringing up three children, the state of the house, Mr S being to blame for absolutely everything (even when he’s not there), the anger vanished.

I was that happy go lucky, fun girl that I used to be. That I still am, the happy go lucky bit is just smothered under a heap of mum stress and those thousands of tabs open in my buzzing brain.

So the weekend away did us the world of good.  Of course, I missed the little S.H.I.T.s hugely and couldn’t wait to see them after 48 hours. And the floaty, relaxed glow lasted a whole five minutes once we stepped back into Maison S.H.I.T. and my youngest fired a Nerf gun at my head.

But I know as a couple the fun is still there. It might be buried under a pile of mismatching socks and car tax reminders, but it’s still there.

We will still grunt at each other as we pass like ships in the night but I will keep that tab open in the motherhead – the one where we are relaxed and holding hands as we ‘mooch’ around, and I’ll quickly click on it when I next feel the urge to reach for a sharp instrument…

The S.H.I.T. mini break was courtesy of wonderful Granny & Grandpa S.H.I.T. who came all the way down from Scotland to make this possible. Thank you x.