Last week I did something radical.
I went on a vacation… and I didn’t take my kids.
I know, it’s decadent, and totally unfair for every other mother who didn’t get to come along with me but Lord was it necessary. The baby is three and a half months old, which means that I had to take a pump along. Which means that I had to force myself not to look at the pictures of him on my phone more than once a day. It also means that I woke up more than once a night in a panic that back home someone had probably left a blanket in his crib and he was surely suffocating.
It was really hard to be away, but it was also so easy to be away. Easy because I got at least 10 hours of sleep every night I was there. Easy because I had time to work out, and get a massage and go out to fancy dinners and wear clothes that didn’t have milk stains on them. Oh, to be an adult again!
I tagged along on a business trip with Dave, so I got to lay by a pool in Miami and then eat my weight in beignets on a quick stop in New Orleans.
When I got to pick one excursion in the midst of said business, I chose the visit to a plantation along the river in Louisiana. Dave wasn’t necessarily fired up about the idea of taking a tour of a 150 year old house given by a woman in Antebellum costume, but then I reminded him of how the epidural had worn off during my labor and how I never asked for any reparations and he silently acquiesced. I think the mint julip I bought him might have helped too.
So there we were, having cocktails in Miami and eating gumbo in New Orleans, and yes, chatting with civil war experts on the plantation (sorry Dave!) and really enjoying each other and remembering what it felt like to be romantic and unencumbered by six sticky little kid hands all vying for attention. Dave was saying how I should definitely come with him on his Buenos Aires trip in March and I was more sure than ever that I was going to lose the last of my baby weight because surely being the jet-setter that I was meant I was cool enough to run 3 miles every day and stop eating the kids left over mac n’ cheese. And then we came home…
Within 8 hours of us getting back Sawyer had the flu… I know this because he puked all over the kitchen floor. And then the living room floor and later my bedroom floor… I mean, seriously, I can’t even explain how much vomit I cleaned up or how many loads of laundry I did. And, as is always the case with any kind of sickness, my husband contracted it within the first five minutes and soon he was puking too. Then Jackson, never to be outdone, started panic dry heaving in every bathroom of our house. In truth, I don’t think he ever had anything but just didn’t want to be outside the drama. So two sick people, one hypochondriac, one teething baby and me praying desperately that I didn’t get it too because, as every mom knows, if you get it too then everyone is screwed. The photo above was taken by Sawyer on Sunday morning as everyone was slowly coming out of their stupor. Doesn’t it just scream glamorous jet-setter? Hard to believe that just 36 hours before I’d been sipping champagne at Mr Chows in Miami. *sigh*
I suppose that’s motherhood for you… or perhaps just life for you. You’ll get some amazing highs, and some pretty cruddy lows and I guess you try to really enjoy the cool stuff and not to be discouraged by the “flu-seasons” of life. Who knows, maybe getting puke in my hair (not my own) was the penance required for the glam few days I’d just gotten to enjoy. Either way, I guess I’ll take it because I’m sure there’s more kid puke in my future and I think I’ll start brushing up on my spanish for that trip in March.