April is often springtime, cherry blossoms and new beginnings. And, by the time you read this, I'll have done it.

"It" in this case is to take an overseas holiday sans husband and kids - something I haven't done for more than three years, ever since younger son Lucien was conceived.

If all goes well, I should be swanning around Seoul right now, hopefully looking chic in chilly weather, poking around night markets, having Yeouido picnics and eating Jewel In The Palace cuisine.

This means leaving Lucien, 21/2, and Julian, six, at home with the Supportive Spouse - who is ever so sweet to take leave from work to mind them for five days. But the journey towards my "Seoul-o" trip without the family has not been guilt-free.

When I told Julian a couple of weeks ago that I was going to South Korea, his immediate response was a howl of dismay: "Nooo! Don't go!"

This was accompanied by much shaking of head and gnashing of teeth. Until I told him that I would buy him some toys there.

"Oh okay," he said, stopping his whining abruptly, and perking up. "There's this Tomica airplane..."

I rolled my eyes.

There, I thought, the matter rested. Not so.

A few days later, as I was packing my suitcase, Julian began begging me to take him with me. He even came up with an all-or-nothing wager: If we played Monopoly Deal, and he won, I had to take him along.

Let me assure you, I am a crackshot with Monopoly Deal. I habitually win Monopoly Deal championships in our household. I took him on.

I lost.

Foolishly, I tried to placate him by saying we would go on another trip together after I came back. If you meet Julian on the streets and he talks your ear off about how he is going to Tokyo with his mother in May, just nod and humour him.

Meanwhile, young Lucien was blissfully unaware that I had any wanderlust tricks up my sleeve. When you are 30 months old, life pretty much consists of an endless party of milk, afternoon naps, playtime and fights with your elder brother.

On the cusp of my departure on Good Friday, Julian started acting out. Ash Wednesday became a contest of wills between us - go to school, no, leave you here, no, don't talk to me, sorry mummy, I love you.

Thursday: He alternated between sulkiness and being superglued to my hip.

He called me while I was driving home from an evening class to tell me he missed me. We had a long phone chat, and he greeted me with a hug at the door. We fell asleep side by side.

Solo expeditions, or at least partial family ones, have not been strange to our household. Last month, Julian and his dad had gone on a train trip to Kuala Lumpur.

My current trip was planned around the same time, in late February. Somehow, after the mad rush involved in starting a fresh year, I had really craved some peace and quiet. Writing a research paper on Korean film, I became convinced that I needed to set foot in the country's capital to at least gain some credibility; to be able to say that I'd gone there, even as I made academic generalisations about its pop culture. Plus, I had a bunch of frequent-flier miles to redeem.

But even the best-laid plans can look sort of patchy when it's 5.30am in the morning, and you're sneaking out of bed, disentangling yourself from small limbs, to catch a flight.

I began to wish I wasn't going. I found myself worrying about whether the kids' schedules would be disrupted by my absence, and how long it would take to get back in the groove later.

That was, however, momentary.

Parental separation anxiety is something that I have and am still struggling with.

For now, Seoul's calling.