So, I’m in the middle of a blissful three-day weekend away from home – I’ll pause so you can all hate me for a minute – OK, get over it now (you can just visualize what my house is going to look like on Sunday night, if that helps you).
This time away is fantastic because it not only means sleeping in and having margs at lunch with friends, but it means so much more…
- Breezing through the airport, with one small bag and a stack of gossip magazines.I SWEAR I did not laugh at the Mom struggling to get through security with three kids, eight bags, two car seats and a stroller. I would NEVER.
- Actually getting to READ those magazines (or not, because you’re passed out from the multiple Valium you took*) instead of doling out Goldfish and unsticking lollipops from hair and fixing headsets and answering “When is this plane going to blast-off/stop making that loud noise (which is the engine so hopefully, um, NEVER)/get to Grammy and Pop’s house?
- Buying groceries that don’t include any form of frozen waffle, mac-n-cheese or chicken nugget
- Walking to town without a constant dialogue about when we’re going to get ice cream (although obviously you still get the ice cream).
- CLEANING THE HIGH CHAIR TRAY! That G-D high chair tray is the bane of my existence. Three days without cleaning it is like living a life free of all responsibility.
- Reading books that don’t rhyme
- Applying sunscreen to anything squirmy
- Drinking Margaritas at lunch (sorry, it’s worth repeating)
- Bring drooled or vomited or climbed on (check me out! I didn’t mention poop! You’re welcome.)
- Sleeping straight through the night without hearing [screaming] “MOMMY!!!” or [hushed whisper] “I have iPah?” or [whining] “I’m allllll wet.” And of course without seeing Crazy Eyes.
- It means doing absolutely whatever you feel like doing whenever you feel like doing it. AH. (I could hear that collective <sigh> all the way from here.)
But here’s the rub… when you’re away from your kids, for an extended period of time, in blissful peace and quiet, you start to miss those little buggers. You start to think about how cute their little faces are or about the funny things they say and then all of a sudden you’re… oh hold on, not cool, my glass is empty.
OK, I’m back. What was I saying? I’m sorry, missing who?
*I’m not a raging addict, just a very very very very very bad flyer. I am 100% certain, without a doubt (duh, that’s what 100% means) that every single plane I step foot on is going to crash. So far, I’ve been wrong. Phew.