It's a Dad's LifeAdam BrophyAfter last week's primal scream for a night's sleep I was literally inundated with a suggestion. To Mrs Gilroy-Johnson I say thank you very much for the variety of ways to keep the monsters warm at night to stop them caterwauling with cold.

However, before we made a huge effort to confront the conundrum, we did what we should have done years ago: ditched them with Granny and legged it to Paris. Sometimes the Missus has genius ideas. Back in November when the Christmas hoopla was getting under way, she and a couple of childless buddies were talking about how awful January and February were after the festivities.

Wracked with the prospect of Christmas ending, they decided to book themselves a little city-break treat to ease those cold and cashless months.

Feeling so buoyed by their far-sightedness, they even decided that I was permissible as the one item of male hand-luggage.

Obviously the kids were never on the agenda but, with two months to make the arrangements, the Missus assured me that they would be taken care of and that I should sit back and relax. Of course, the week before our departure I'm on the phone to my dear old Mum begging her for a dig out. She knows our children's abilities to stay awake and alert for long periods and so was reluctant, but every son knows his mother's weak points. Ten minutes of my being understanding about her reservations, and resigning myself to staying home, had her on the rack.

The ability to manipulate one's parents into adulthood should be a sharp reminder of the need for intense discipline every time your five-year-old cajoles you into allowing something inappropriate. My own glee when my mother acquiesces to my requests should be consciously aligned with my powerlessness, having been badgered into promising the elder a pony for her seventh birthday - even though we live in the city.

Anyway, the upshot is Granny bites the bullet and we take off to Paris for our first child-free weekend since the younger's arrival more than two years ago.

I have to state here that we are not those overbearing parents who are unable to depart for a moment without their offspring for fear they might miss some bonding time. No, we would quite happily spend every weekend in indulgence if we could only convince people to hang onto our monsters for more than one night at a time, and that only rarely. But our pool of potential babysitters, just like my mother, knows the characters involved and puts a 24-hour limitation on all interventions. Really, who could blame them?

And Paris and the Parisians are gorgeous, elegant, grand and sumptuous. And the company is relaxed and entertaining. And we get to pretend we are dizzy young things, born to bounce between the great cities of the world.

And on the evening of the second day, as I'm digesting my lunch, finishing my novel (reading not writing - that would be a bit much to ask of even Paris), and preparing for the onslaught of dinner, I realise I miss the nippers.

I'm so predictable. Our travel partners had actually commented that, while they are quite happy to talk kids, we as parents aren't inclined to devote our evenings to tales of potty training. At that, the Missus and I beamed, consumed by the confirmed belief that we are in fact eternally chic.

Now, here I am, engaging in a guilty pleasure: savouring the sense of loss at not having the kids around, knowing that I'll see them the next day. It didn't hurt that, having had my sneaky eye-misting, all that was pressing that night was to shower before gorging on more entrecôte, frites and overpriced beer. Sentimentality with regard to children requires distance and absence, and can only be fully appreciated when the reality is just a little time away.

Pól Ó Muirí is on leave. Tuarascail will resume next week