I don’t often go away without my family. As a matter of fact, I did not leave my children, for more than a few hours at a time, until I had been a mother for about seven years. At that point, it was vital for all who live in my house, that I get the heck out of Dodge, lest I lose any of the few remaining bits of sanity to which I was clinging.
Since then, I try to leave all responsibility behind every once in a while — which means about once a year. It’s usually only one night, two if I’m feeling extra brave – I’ll explain that later – where no one is asking me to find a sock (it’s on the floor where you left it) or get him/her a drink (We’re both sitting down at the dinner table, are we not?) or even chauffeur a child from here to there.
Previous trips have left me refreshed and renewed, only to come back home and have my soul crushed. When Brian is left to his own devices, my home resembles a Lord of the Flies reenactment. People claim to have been unfed for meals (“they didn’t ask for food.” Really? Children have to ask? Have you ever encountered a child who’s had a blood sugar crash?), the house looks like perhaps a pack of wild boys have ransacked it and small people are occasionally wearing the same clothing I left them in, lo those many hours before.
Often, I come home to harrowing tales of parenting, dad-style. There was the rock-climbing excursion where my oldest nearly fell to his death in Central Park, the kayak trip out into Peconic Bay where the same child was, momentarily, misplaced and, on more than one occasion, I’ve come home to a possibly (or definitely) broken child.
It doesn’t even have to be overnight. Sometimes, I’m just trying to get in a few hours of shopping with a girlfriend. One such afternoon, I received a suspicious phone call.
“What are you doing?” asked the clearly guilty husband.
“I’m in a dressing room. So I guess that means I’m trying on clothes.”
“Oh. (Pause) When were you thinking of coming home?”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. Except I think maybe the boy broke his collar bone.”
“I’m leaving now.”
The story goes that they were innocently wrestling and my 81-pound son inexplicably fell into the television cabinet. Uh huh. That sounds plausible. Which is exactly what I explained to the child as we drove to the emergency room.
“Listen, they may ask me to leave the room and ask you some questions. It’s best that you don’t say that Dad did this to you. OK?”
Thankfully, I did not have any encounter with CPS, but the fear was real.
Last weekend, I took a long overdue trip with my amazing sisters — a sisters’ weekend that we began planning back in December, a trip that took incredible feats of calendar gymnastics to coordinate, a short jaunt that, shockingly, we had never taken before. I packed some clothes, some peanut butter and some wine. I was all ready.
I left a detailed, sometimes minute by minute, itinerary for my husband. I left a list of expectations for my return. It basically just asked that there not be dirty clothes anywhere but in a hamper or on a person when I got back. And a similar request for dishes, replacing the hamper with dishwasher. Oh, and if they really loved me at all, they would be sure the kitchen counters were clear. And clean. It was really just a few simple, logical requests.
About 15 hours into our trip, my sisters and I were walking along the beautiful beaches of Cape Cod. The waves were gently lapping at the shore and the sun was high and bright. I felt compelled to take a picture. So, I took out my phone to snap a few images and saw a missed call and voicemail. From the gym that my son attends.
I sensed that this was not good.
“I’m sure you already know…” nope, definitely not good.
Turns out it was a bashed toe. After a few text messages with a dismayed husband (“How do you know about the toe?”), it seemed it was just a minor bruise and I was urged to continue on with my sisterly bonding. I was suspect of the all the positivity, but you have to let them grow up and learn things on their own at some point, right? After all, he’d been a parent for nearly 14 years already. It was time.
Those hopes were dashed early the next morning.
“Who’s his primary care doctor?” Came across my lock screen before I even had my first cup of tea.
Here we go.
One trip to the ER, two crutches and one broken toe later, The text messages stopped and I headed home. Back to the dirty socks, the piles of laundry and my damaged child. I think I need a vacation from my vacation.
I was not surprised to hear that dinner had not really happened while I was away. Brian informed me that they were welcome to eat whenever they wanted, they had only to ask. At a certain point, though, he fell asleep on the couch and woke up around midnight. Thankfully, the children ate and, as a bonus, they also stayed in the house. Though I guess it would have been pretty tough to run away with a broken toe.
Next time, the itinerary will include easy-to-make recipes for kids. Luckily, grating cheese and microwaving are part of my kids’ skill set. If only they had included some veggies in the nacho binges.
Quick (and somewhat healthy) nachos
tortilla chips
cheddar cheese, grated
chicken, chopped and cooked
peppers and onions, sautéed
salsa
plain greek yogurt
Spread the tortilla chips on a plate and add the cheese, chicken and peppers and onions. Microwave on high for about 45-60 seconds. Microwaves vary, so check the melting of the cheese every 30 seconds. Stop when it’s all melted, but not bubbling. Serve with salsa and sour cream and you have included all the food groups. Hooray for you!
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
[contact-form-7 id=”27986″ title=”Write to Laurie”]
