My husband took our girls, ages six and eight, to visit his parents in Pennsylvania for three days and left me at home, by myself.
It. Was. Awesome.
I’m no martyr, but this chunk of me-time was so big and so delicious. It was the chocolate wedding cake that dwarfed all those previous two-bite cupcake moments, the 90-minute mani-pedi at a local salon, the king-sized hotel bed I sprawl across when traveling for work and the occasional girls night out with my friends.
I had a substantial to-do list related to our upcoming move and for Halloween. I’d promised the kids our decorations would go up the minute our house went under contract. I’d volunteered to babysit a friend’s children during one of my two family-free evenings and I needed to attend a synagogue committee meeting on the way to my afternoon massage. Plus, I needed to squeeze in a trip to Whole Foods to buy wine and cheese for my girlfriends, who were coming over to play Cards Against Humanity on Sunday night.
I wasn’t bored, but I felt like I had so much time (and so little interruption). It was an embarrassment of riches. It was better than a vacation. It was a vacation from real life.
And, oh, the luxury of peace and quiet! No one needed to tell me something or show me anything. No one asked me a question. No one commented on my meals, my questionable taste in TV shows or the fact that my car radio was playing “This American Life” and nothing else.
Yet, all good things must come to an end.
By Monday evening, I was full-on missing my husband and kids. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.
But a word of advice to fellow parents, if your spouse ever suggests a weekend away with the family, you might want to say, “Honey, you go. Take the kids and have fun. I’ll stay home and clean the house.”
