My husband is, despite a tendency to snore and an affinity for true crime shows about men who kill their wives and almost get away with it (which he assures me is not “research”), is a good man who makes me laugh and indulges my passion for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and reruns of “Everybody Loves Raymond.”
My children are astonishing little miracles of life. They stun me with their wisdom, flatter me with their unerring love and force me to appreciate things like cracks in the sidewalk and family camp outs in the living room when the power goes out from a freak snow storm.
I am blessed beyond reason to have these people not only in my life, but to have these people as the loves of my life. I thank God for them every day.
And if I don’t get away from these people and their whiny, demanding little (and big) selves within the next twenty-four hours, I’m going to
The thing about being a mom is that it is CONSTANT. From the moment you are woken up at five in the morning by a three year old finger being pointed into your chest and chanting, “Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast, breakfast,” until the three a.m. cup of water that your five year old has to have or she will most assuredly die, there is no rest for the weary.
I am so freakin’ weary.
The length of my daily to-do list is rivaled only by the length of the grocery store receipt on my weekly pilgrimage to keep this family in cheese sticks, bananas and toilet paper (good gravy, with three potty-trained children, this family is single-handedly keeping Mr. Whipple and the good folks at Charmin in business). I wish more than anything that I could say that I complete each task with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.
More likely, I complete each task with a muttered curse under my breath that if muttered by my kids would earn them an hour long time-out and a week’s moratorium on Phineas & Ferb.
The solution, I have found, is simple.
I’m running away from home.
Not forever, mind you. Just a couple of nights. Two glorious nights spent with two similarly minded friends, with no husbands, no kids, and no one waking you up before dawn because their blanket is too itchy.
The best way for me to love my family is to get the hell away from them once or twice a year. If I don’t, I’ll snap. And if you think the snark and sarcasm is bad now, there is not enough wine or Nutella to rescue me once that happens.
So I will run as fast as my legs can carry me away from my home and family tomorrow morning. And I will return on Sunday afternoon with a little more love and a little less snark. Maybe slightly hungover, but more in love with my family than I am now.
Of course, being more in love with them doesn’t preclude me from planning my next running away destination.
I’m thinking spa. . . on an island. Maybe I’ll even let the husband come with me.