Double
Down! Split em’, Hit, Stay, Black Jack!
This was my mantra last weekend in the windowless paradise
of the Palms Hotel in Las Vegas.
Black Jack was the name of the game for my husband and I and another
mom/dad team from the hood, as we morphed into hip high rollers for 48
hours.
This trip was months in the making for my friend Annie and
me to celebrate our husbands' 40th birthdays. Thanks to some work related
connections, we scored a sweet hook-up at the Palms. We’re talking two bedroom
penthouse suite, ridiculous dinners, massages, and of course, those lovely
cocktail waitresses.
Las Vegas
is a true test of one’s self control.
This was the first time we’d been away from our boys for a
whole weekend without the use of the grandparents as guardians. So we decided
to use a service called Village Nannies, where the sitters are background
checked, tested, and come complete with full-time jobs as teachers and social
workers, as well as letters of recommendation from other over-protective
parents.
Before we left, I wrote a small novel based on my boys'
intricate lives, detailing everything from when to wake-up Truman to take him
to pee so he wouldn’t wet the bed, to the precise combination of jiggles and
kicks it takes to get the front door open. I stocked the fridge with really healthy food, and had the
cleaning crew come so the sitter wouldn’t turn me into DCFS, wrote my boys
special “I’ll miss you” notes attached to guilt induced little gifts, packed my
stilettos, jumped in the limo, took a deep cleansing breathe, and left my mommy
anxiety behind.
We really must be able to break free once and awhile
without feeling as though we’re betraying our kids, don’t ya think? (Lesson number 1 of the weekend.)
Anyway, the weekend was spent leaping out of our mom and
dad roles, wearing stuff we wouldn’t be caught dead in at carpool, and being
goofy, noisy kids again (over 21-year-old kids that is). We danced in smoky, over-crowded, ear-damagingly loud clubs,
got all gussied up just to hang out with our husbands, and threw a little
caution to the wind. After the age of thirty five, acting like twenty somethings is really quite necessary from time to time . (Lesson # 2.)
When the party was over, we were truly ready to take off
the plunging necklines and sexy, blister-inducing shoes, put on our hooded sweaters and Uggs, and step back into our mom
roles. On the plane ride back, we talked about missing our little people, and
how blessed we are to have such great stuff waiting for us back in the
burbs.
But, for three days in February of 08’ we were smokin’ hot, 25 year old, sorta-high-rollin’, Vegas girls.
And my boys not only survived, they’re now asking when we
could leave again so their new love “Shana” can come back and stay. No more gifts for them.