Time Away

I love my kids. I really do. But I have to say -- 24 hours without them is heaven on earth. Blue and Green had their very first overnight with my parents this weekend, and Michael and I took off for the sunset (see above).

I was a bit nervous about leaving the kids, because I feared an epic scene at the departure. Green, in particular, has a few issues with independence. Well, to be frank, Green has a few issues in general. For instance, he has a bunch of random, unhelpful rules that he follows (e.g. he won't eat peanut butter on sunny days). And he has taken my inclination for the dramatic to a whole new level. Most of the time I compare him to a teenage girl (without the good parts, like having someone to shop with), because he gets irrationally upset over dumb things. When he can't find a pair of socks that is lighter in color than his brother's, he'll scream something like, "I'll never wear socks again! Never!" And then he'll throw himself down onto the bed and sob. Or if his shovel breaks at the beach, and I give him the spare purple shovel, he'll holler,"MAMA! I can't dig mud pits with anything that's purple! I'll never use purple! And I won't come to the beach with you ANYMORE!" What can I say? It's not easy being Green.

Anyway, in preparation for our getaway, I used an old trick I learned from Bill Clinton. If you don't say what IS is, then it's not a problem. Right? So last week I started saying stuff like, "We're going to Grandy and Grandpa's house this weekend, and guess what? Daddy and I are going hiking on Saturday. And then we'll see you on Sunday morning." I just kind of left out the part where we LEAVE THEM BEHIND. This seemed to work! HA! But really, it was my mom who saved the day. On Saturday morning, she started talking about all the presents she was going to give them once Michael and I left. After an hour or so of this, Blue said to me, "Mama, will you disappear now?" So much for grief about being separated from us.

Michael and I took off for Olympic National Park. Our plan was to go out to a groovy hike along the coast. But there were two problems. First was that it would have taken 4 hours of driving. And second was that those four hours of driving would have prevented us from finishing the hike before the tide came in and washed us out to sea. This was very disappointing to me, and I commenced whining. So we stopped at the ranger station, where Michael sized up trails with his favorite ranger. He loves this ranger, and I don't know why (Is it her tight, brown, polyester government pants? Or that sexy Smoky the Bear hat?). It seems like we talk to her every time we go hiking, and she always sends us to a steep trail that doesn't leave the trees. This time was no exception. It did end up at a little lake, and that was nice, but it wasn't a crystal clear alpine lake with huge snow-capped spires on top of it! I threw myself down on the ground and wailed, "I'm NEVER going to ask for help from that ranger again! NEVER!" (No, I didn't really do this. It's a joke. Ha.).

But then we went to Lake Crescent, where we stayed the night. And there were rowboats! Rowboats! This was terrific, because I love boating, and also because there are lots of ghost stories about this lake. Apparently, there are missing people buried in its depths. AND, if you drown in the lake, your body will supposedly turn into soap! Soap! (Think I'm kidding? Go read "The Lady of the Lake: Tale of the Corpse Turned to Soap Keeps Lake Crescent Bubbling with Intrigue," Seattle Post-Intelligencer, October 30, 1990). Anyway, Michael and I went rowboating (well, he rowed, and I took lots of close-ups of his head), and it was fabulous. We didn't see ghosts or corpses, however.

What's really neat about getting away from the kids is that our sense of time changes. I knew that we had been living on their schedule for years, but it's not until we had distance from it that I realized how little time has been our own. Even when we go out, there's still the tick, tick, tick of the babysitter's watch. And the mornings -- we live them in five and ten minute increments. Here's an example of our typical morning:

6 am: Kids wake up.

6:15: 2 bowls of Cheerios are consumed by each child.

6:20-7:30: Kids bug each other and whine at parents.

7:30: Arthur comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I make sandwiches for lunch box (cheese if sunny, peanut butter if cloudy).

8:00: Curious George comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I shower.

8:30: Kids eat second breakfast. I start screeching, "Put your yogurt cups in the trash! Put your spoons in the sink!"
8:35: Kids start getting dressed. I yell, "Don't put your naked butt on your brother's pillow!"

8:45: I yell at kids to put dirty underpants in the hamper.

8:47: Kids pack lunches in lunch boxes, leaving underpants on the floor.

8:50: I wrestle kids to the ground to get sunscreen on them.

8:53: I scream again about underpants.

8:55: Kids fight over whose lunchbox gets to sit in which position by the door. I scream, "We're going to be late for school!! Go! Go! Go!"

9:00: Drive to school, which starts RIGHT NOW.

9:03: Return to house to get forgotten lunch boxes.

Day after day, these same things happen, and the clock starts to become an oppressive tool. But this weekend -- no clock, no lunch boxes, no hamper. That was the biggest anniversary gift of all.

When we returned to my parents' house, the kids didn't even look up from what they were doing. My mom said there wasn't any crying, screaming, fighting, or dirty butts on pillows. There were also meals made up of brownies, lots of new toys, and constant attention. When we got into the car, Blue and Green waved goodbye cheerfully and were appropriately thankful. But once the car turned the corner, Green started to cry. "What's the matter?" I asked. His crying escalated. "What is it?" I repeated. He wailed, "I'm NEVER going home. NEVER! There's nothing fun there!" Sigh. It was time to watch the clock again. All I can say is that I'm counting the hours until we can drop them off again.