And Away We Go

And so sometimes, the best strategy is avoidance.

Like when J.'s idiot niece got married-spawning a huge and hilarious family rift, not to mention a whole blog - I avoided the whole thing by taking the kids to Gettysburg. I wasn't in town to hear J's useless and ineffective boo-hooing, and I had carefully planned the trip far enough in advance that the kids knew it was set in stone before the frilly little Invitation for One came to the house. Oh, darn. We have plans. Had I thought enough about the reaction it would get, I'd have RSVPed "Terribly sorry, dahling. The children and I will be traaaaveling. Tragedy to miss the big raspberry taffeta fete, for sure. Air kisses to the bride and her obese groom."

And conveniently, Scott, my handsome, smart boyfriend mentioned wanting to finally go to Gettysburg with me, since it held so many special, yet separate, memories for us both.  And, oh, would you look at that. The only weekend we could possibly go - without kids, without conflicts with the college's graduation, or Memorial Day, or a graduation party we're attending, or a graduation ceremony for that matter - is Mothers Day Weekend. We'd go for my birthday.

Perfect.

Instead of pining away for my kids as Sunday dawned, I'd be waking up next to Scott (in a bed that I don't have to make!) looking forward to coffee and breakfast and shopping and a long walk in the glorious countryside. I could postpone the let down until we were on our way home.

And so we go, and we have a marvelous time together. But we'll get to that.

Sunday afternoon comes and we are in Scott's zippy little car with the top down and the radio on and the sun warming our faces and reddening our noses.  I am quiet on the ride. My fabulous escape is coming to an end. Scott is going home. I have hours to fill up before I can pick up the kids from Lars.

These are the darkest hours of the day.

Scott and I were out late. I am a little sleepy. Once we've had a bite to eat and he is on his way home, I take a nap.

45 minutes down.

I unpack from the weekend.

15 more.

Against every fiber in my body, I change into grungy clothes and go outside. To do yard work.

The ladder. The saw. The rake. The Hedge Hog trimmer.

It is 90 degrees and the air is filled with pollen and bugs. I am up on the six-foot ladder cutting 3 feet of hedge from the top of the shrubbery that surrounds my property.

Surrounds.

My property.

I spend 2 hours hacking, sweating, trimming, sawing, yanking, raking and swearing my way to distraction. And then run out of juice for the Hedge Hog. There is a God.

I sit to drink some lemonade outside and the cat comes to the window, meowing for me. I reach out to touch the screen and she reaches out a paw to touch me. It is such a moment of sweetness. And in that moment of sweetness, Hil Facetimes me on my phone and we chat about her weekend. And how excited she is to give me my present.  I am beginning to feel human, suddenly.

An hour later, I pick up the kids and head to the restaurant of choice. A fun, favorite place with something for everyone. Including a chardonnay for Mom and a Giant Brownie Sundae for 3.

The kids are adorable. They bicker good naturedly about whose card or gift I will open first. Pat got me a lovely plant and a sweet card. Hil's card is just as cute and she got me perfume.  Their beaming faces are all I need to feel real again.

Too soon it is all over. I drop the kids at Lars' house and kiss them sweetly goodbye. I chat with Scott about what a wonderful weekend we had. I send the kids "Thank you xoxo" texts. I get on my pajamas and pile into bed early. 

I don't even notice that Mom and I both ignored each other and neglected to call.