Ok. Ok. Ok, so I’m going away for the weekend. Note: I did not say WE are going away for the weekend. I am going away. Sans boys. So to sum up; I am leaving my children HERE and going ELSEWHERE.
I am insane.
It struck me about 4:00 afternoon that I was going away and it was time to get my ducks in a row. I flew into action, doing laundry and vacuuming and making lists. Ducks in a row, I thought, what an apt phrase. Because the PROBLEM, you see, is that ducks don’t STAY in a row, and the minute you line them up, one of them wanders off. Mom argues that they do, in fact, stay in a row. However, I am drawing upon a rather large body of information that insists that they do NOT. Exhibit A: people often compare my boys to a small herd of ducks. “Oh, LOOK AT THEM, following you like little ducks.”
Well. If my boys are INDEED like ducks then I can assure you that ducks do NOT remain in a row, but are more likely to punch one another, climb random objects, and get things lodged in their nostrils.
Exhibit B: all the songs I have sung to my children that featured ducks. A quick review of said songs brings to light the fact that ducks “wibble wobble to and fro” and they “went out to play, over the hills and far away.” Do those sound like creatures remaining at attention to you? I rest my case.
And indeed, I am frustrated in my attempt to set things in order for my departure. See, I’d like to leave as light a burden as possible for my parents, but there’s only so much I can do. I can’t feed the boys enough that they won’t need food tomorrow. I can’t convince them to stop using the bathroom so it stays clean (or at least not entirely disgusting). No matter HOW well brushed their teeth are tonight, they’ll need brushing again soon.
So see? Ducks that just won’t stay in a row.
And what about my flight? My reservation says they will be serving me “brunch or a snack.” Well? Which is it? Not that it matters, it’ll be some shrink wrapped dried out poor excuse for food, but I WANT TO KNOW. Also, I know it’s silly to worry about the flight. It’s statistically safer than driving, blah blah blah. This only serves to remind me that IT’S OK, I MIGHT NOT SURVIVE THE TRIP TO THE AIRPORT.
And then when I get there (IF I get there)? I’m spending the weekend with Mir and Joshilyn, two women whom I admire so much it makes me revert, deep inside, to middle school. I’m sure I’ll be smelling my armpits as the plane is landing. I’m worried that while they make witty, droll comments, I’ll be silently comparing our boobs and wondering if they’ve kissed more boys than me. I don’t know how to be witty. RIGHT NOW, I don’t even know what droll MEANS.
And speaking of boys, my boys, my sons, my babies? WON’T BE THERE. They’ll be here, and what if they need me, and their little hearts break and they are scarred for life and grow up to be the kind of men that say they’ll call when they won’t because they know, at their hearts, that the world is a cold and untrustworthy place?
Or what if they don’t notice I’m gone, and meanwhile I’m weeping silent tears into my pillow because I can’t smell their puppy dog smelling heads?
What if my parents are so fed up with my gallivanting ways by the time I get home that I can’t ever convince my mother to join me on another fun-filled Costco trip? What if they MOVE while I’m gone, and don’t tell me where they went?
You know who else won’t be there? Clay. That’s right, he’s ALSO not going to be there, which means I won’t get to smell his neck for DAYS. What was I ON when I decided this would be a good idea? What if this isn’t just two days away, but the SPELL BREAKING two days? HUH? HUH?
Then again, what if everything is fine? What if my wonderful people here at home manage just fine without me, and the wonderful people I’m going to see manage fine with me? What if the plane doesn’t crash and the boys call sometimes but sound ok? What if this is actually a GOOD idea?
I guess we’ll see.