Me Time
My mom gave me an early Christmas present this weekend: An entire evening to myself. More than an evening, actually; she took The Ladies for a spontaneous sleepover on Saturday night and didn’t return them until after lunch the next day.
Best. Present. Ever.
When you’re a solo mom, you grab your “me” time on the fly. Outnumbered with no backup in sight, nap time, the day care commute, an afternoon playdate become your sanity savers. These are the times when you catch a few minutes peace, attempt to impose order on the toys that seem determined to stage a livingroom coup, or maybe read a couple of pages of a book that doesn’t contain pictures. It’s a break, but it’s an infinitely finite one; you always know that you’re working on borrowed time, that your reprieve can be revoked at any moment–the baby will wake up, the bus will arrive at its stop, the kid will come home from her friend’s hopped up on sugar and eager to share every moment of her time away. Times like these you may be technically off the mommy clock, but in reality, you’re still on. Still listening for the first stirrings from that nap, still thinking about the kids, and what to make for dinner, and whether or not anyone still has clean underwear in the drawer. It’s me time, but with a side of mommy.
When I left The Ladies with Gramma on Saturday, I felt like I left their Mommy there with them. My step was lighter, the air was sweeter, the world was filled with possibility. I felt free. Not that I don’t love my kids, but they’re work. A lot of work. And it’s been a long time since I’ve had that kind of break. The kind that isn’t born of any sort of situational need, but is just a break. The Ladies weren’t with Gramma because I had a birthday party to attend or a work thing to do (don’t even ask about a date. Seriously). They were just there because they wanted a sleepover and Gramma said yes. Leaving me with an entire evening to myself.
The apartment felt different without at least one of The Ladies present. Quieter. There was a stillness to it that is never there, not even in the silence of Regan’s naps. At first I was positively giddy with all the extra oxygen. What should I do first, bask in the sweet silence, free of the dulcet tones of Ruby and Dora, or shatter it with music that definitely earned its parental advisory sticker?
Dancing around my livingroom, it struck me that it was 8 o’clock on a Saturday night and I could do anything I wanted. I could see a late movie. Go out dancing. Take a bubble bath without anyone lobbying to join me or taking advantage of my incapacitated state to make an unauthorized run at the cookies.
What I found myself doing, strangely enough, was missing my kids. They’ve become so much a part of me that not having them with me felt a bit like missing a phantom limb; their absence was a presence all its own. I’ll admit I was surprised by that. The Ladies were with Gramma, safe, happy, and certainly not thinking about me at all, and there I was, unable to stop thinking about them. I even woke up at 5:51, the Shaolin Toddler’s normal waking time, convinced that she was inconsolable, wailing for her mummy. (The little rat fink slept in until 7:30 without making a peep.)
I guess it just goes to show you that you can never truly separate the “mom” from the “me.” But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t take full advantage of the opportunity should it arise. Lord knows I did.