Flying solo.

The following three statements came out of my mouth this week:

1. It’s not a poo, it’s a chewed up tomato. Sit down and stay in the bath.

2. Please move over and give your brother a turn to try and burn down the house.

3. Someone give me a straight answer: How much toilet paper did she eat?

By the time the third statement was hanging in a bubble over my head, I knew I was ready for a break. And I have one coming. Three nights, three days. Alone. I’ve written frequently about surviving when your spouse is on the road, but it’s not often I get to muse about being the one leaving. Here are some tips I plan on following myself:

1. Let go. When you’re the person in charge of all the details that oil the machine, it’s near-impossible to imagine that without you, the machine will run. But it does. I may be the deus ex machina, around here, but I’m married to a rather competent person, so I really have no excuse. I know the kids will be fed, clean, and rested. I know their teeth will be brushed. I also know that because M will be picking out their clothes, that the girls will appear as though they are competing in a young Gertude Stein lookalike contest. That’s right. In a wardrobe of pink and frills M manages to make the girls look as mannish as he possibly can, and even succeeds in rooting out and clothing them in items I’ve reserved for their school emergency-bags. The pants that don’t fit. The shirts that may have belonged to the boys and are so stained they look like wearable Rorschach tests. But alas, I let go. I don’t allow myself to care if my wee ones parade around town in curtains (Von Trapp children don’t play! They march!) because I don’t have to dress them.

2. Don’t let go too much. M seems to believe that in order to get a true break, I need complete radio silence from him and the kids. In fact, we have family members who feel the same way. But again, when you’re the point person for all the minutiae, it’s not only unnatural, it’s downright terrifying to hear nothing at all. If I were going for a week or so (a girl can dream, can’t she?) I’d wean myself slowly. But for a few days away I need mini updates. I’m not asking for bowel movement reports (anymore) or video feeds of the baby sleeping (picture was never very clear anyway), but I do need a couple of lines in an email just checking in. What I do not need is to return from a small break and find out from a friend, in a text, that a child of mine has broken his arm. Enough said.

3. Look great. I don’t have mom jeans (that I know of), but I certainly have clothes that yell MOTHER OF FIVE. I plan on leaving most of them at home. Instead I shall pack things I don’t wear at home because at any moment someone could walk by and wipe a booger on me. (If you’re traveling to some cities, this could happen anyway, so be prepared.) So, I pack special things, things that need dry cleaning. I know I still look harried enough not to fool anyone, but a little pretending goes a long way.

4. Don’t go overboard. Thankfully, my running partner reminded me that I must resist the urge to wear makeup on the plane. Every time I’ve done it, I’ve had a new pimple to greet me as I’ve landed. I’d rather look washed out while airborne that pubescent when I land. Also, remember that poncho you bought in Peru that you thought you’d wear all winter but made you looked like a brightly colored stuffed pillow the moment you got home? If you happen to be shopping on your trip don’t start buying ridiculous things you’ll only be able to wear on these trips. I have now learned that there is no discount deep enough to warrant the purchase of cashmere. None at all. If you see me out and about this weekend with a cashmere sweater in my hands, please please please stage an intervention.

5. Plan ahead. I don’t like to end one vacation without having the next one planned, even if the next one is an overnight road trip. It makes reentry slightly less painful. This is especially true when I’m alone. I need to have date with M scheduled, or at the very least, a long run. Similarly, I don’t want to repeat the mistake of racing home, running through the front door, and immediately enveloping the chaos. Because I know that the minute I get home I will have to struggle to remember what it felt like to be alone, to know that the kids are being bathed, but I’m not the one doing it, to know that the mountain of food under the table will be cleaned up (or not) by someone other than me. This time, I will reflect. I plan on sitting in front of the house for a few minutes, soaking in the solitude. Only then I will run up the stairs, charge through the front door, and dive head first into the insanity.

What I am willing to overlook

After what seemed like a bloody eternity, M and I got a sitter and went out this weekend. And coming of the heels on last week’s marathon of sleep deprivation, I certainly needed it. I was willing to overlook the fact that Fiona called us (wasn’t even going to query how a three year old makes a phone call), but I was none too thrilled to come home and find out that things went very well, “especially once I took your eye pencil away from Bennett.”

Again, I am willing to overlook the fact that there was money wasted. I personally don’t believe that makeup that costs less than $20 works, and I am convinced (mascara aside) that drug store makeup is for emergencies and what my father used to refer to as “common girls.”  (Save your hate mail, please. I half jest.) But seriously — can’t you keep your dirty nine year old paws off my stuff?

This morning he came down and handed me MY digital camera. I looked down and saw of picture of him, in a full fake mustache (from where, I may never know), gobs of my eye pencil on what were now pronounced arched eyebrows.. oh, and a suit and tie. Yeah, just a little fun for the babysitter.

Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to count all the mistakes I’ve made with him. Firstborns are recipients of all our screw-ups. This afternoon Fiona and I were in Trader Joe’s. And she is clutching a box of lollipops, one of which she gets to have as a reward for failing to pee in her pants at school (this BTW is a common pastime for my kids. they toilet train and almost a year later they pee in their pants for fun. it’s hysterical, really). A poor little firstborn is behind her with his very hip mother (she must be visiting from out of town. nobody like that lives here.)

“I want a lollipop,” he says.

“Oh you made your choice already. You picked another treat.”

“But I want a lollipop now.”

“I know precious, but you already picked your treat. Look, aren’t you excited for your Emergen-c? It’s yellow and it’s fizzy and look, it has five whole grams of sugar!”

“No. I want a lollipop. You can take that fake treat and shove it, lady.”

Ok, I made that last bit up…but I can’t judge – I may not have tried to convince Bennett that a vitamin C-infused-flu-relief-drink is a treat, but I know I did crazy stuff like that too and now my firstborn dresses up like an Italian circus ringleader the minute I leave the house.

Heaven help us all.