I am taking a solo trip to Florida this weekend. Mostly, it’s to visit family – my grandmother specifically. She’s at the root of at least half of my whimsical childhood memories and lately, I haven’t been able to visit with her as often as I’d like. I am so looking forward to some leisurely conversation, punctuated by sweet tea, German Chocolate Cake and lots of laughter.
Generally, when my husband or I are privy to an unencumbered mini-vacay, the unspoken, agreed upon duration is roughly 48 hours. For better or worse, we’ve come to an understanding that this is the appropriate amount of time one of us can be expected to be left alone with the children before becoming resentful. Or before pizza cycles back around through the rotation more than a few times.
However, due to a teensy bit of miscommunication (or was it the power of positive thinking?) between my husband and I, my trip was extended to a full 72 hours. For those of your keeping track, that’s Friday. And Saturday. And Sunday. And a little bit of Monday.
Let the good times roll.
Of course, I fully intend to miss my sweet little babushkas while I’m away, but what’s that they say about absence making the heart grow fonder… and less exhausted and crabby? Something like that. Anyway, of course I’ll miss them. But in between bouts of wailing and the gnashing of teeth, here are a few things I’ll do to preoccupy myself.
- I am going to read a book. Or dare I say it, maybe two. I am going to drive my butt over to my local book retailer and purchase some pleasurable summer reading to enjoy during my flights. Flights that will not be consumed with tic-tac-toe playing and squabbles over the free 100 calorie packs of cheese-nips. For some reason my children always feel the need to loudly announce that the “FREE SNACKS ARE COMING!” like I don’t feed them, unless it’s a bargain.
- I am going to lay by the pool with my eyes closed, without the fear of impending death, looming over my head. Because over the last few summers, I’ve observed that when my children are at the pool, I suddenly become some kind of kid repellant. They want absolutely nothing to do with me, yet they need my support for their very survival. It’s a silly little irony, which I suppose is meant to prepare me for their teenaged years.
- I am going to make my breakfast first. And eat it while it’s hot. And not feel one iota of guilt about it.
- I am going to participate in grown up conversation that does not require intermittent pauses to mediate sword fights or dole out raisins. I am so looking forward to a good round table discussion about the state of our nation’s gun control policies and delve into what my relatives feelings are about the transgender bathroom legislation on the table in North Carolina. Or actually, I think we’ll probably just be discussing the season premiere of Real Housewives of Orange County. Yeah, that sounds way better.
- I am going to talk about, think about, text about, call about my children (and my hubby too). Because 72 hours is a long freaking time. And I’m going to miss them.