Guess what! I got some of that much-coveted alone time this weekend! Hours and hours of time without any of my children. It turns out all I needed to do was get on a train and go to New York for a day and a half! Because you know, that happens so very often.
After a long, busy, very-much-NOT-alone day (the highlight of which was hanging with Catherine and Mira and a bowl of cheesy polenta with poached eggs of DELICIOUSNESS), I planned on curling up in my hotel with some room service, followed by a bath in a tub without squeaky rubber frogs and bottles of dog shampoo lining the edge, only to discover that there was no room service and the bathroom only had a standing shower. So I ended up trudging around Williamsburg by myself, in search of food.
I sat in a corner booth, surrounded by 20-something hipsters wearing t-shirts for bands I listened to in high school, eating some really good duck confit (FOOD AND TAXI STIPEND YAY) and wondering if the restaurant had high chairs and if my kids would like the sweet potato fries. I read terrifying Instapaper articles about All The Ways You Children Can Get Really Screwed Up, Like Meth and Prescription Pills And Suicide and More Meth and Booze and Seriously, WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY ARTICLES BOOKMARKED ABOUT METH?
So I was actually really, really grateful when my husband called and put the kids on speakerphone. So I could tell them goodnight and that I loved them and DON’T DO DRUGS EVER OKAY? Then I ordered dessert and regretted it, because man, I was tired and wasting valuable uninterrupted sleep time at the hotel.
The rest of the evening went something like this:
Get in bed. Dick around on Internet. Watch Portlandia on Netflix. Test out every pillow on bed in search of proper firmness. Attempt to will self to sleep. Doze. Jerk awake. Forgot to pump milk! Pump. Stash milk in minibar next to Pabst Blue Ribbon because Hipster Hotel Is Hipstery. Will self back to sleep. Jerk awake at thought of forgetting breast milk in minibar tomorrow. Type reminder in phone. Will self back to sleep. Jerk awake because somewhere there is an imaginary baby crying at a frequency only I can hear. Bury head in pillow in futile attempt to block out the sound of not-real crying that isn’t actually happening. Doze. Jerk awake because boobs are also now ready to feed said imaginary baby who doesn’t exist zzzzzzzzWHATzzzzzBABYzzzzzWHERE AM IzzzzzzWHY IS IT SO HOT IN HEREzzzzzzzzzWHERE’S THE BABYzzzzzzz.
By the time I checked out and got on the train home, I was completely exhausted and ready to be back at home, in my own bed, even if it meant sharing the space with Jason and Ike and the cat, while Ezra to poked at my eyeballs to see if I was awake and Noah excitedly shouted the plot of the latest episode of Kung Fu Panda: Legend of Awesomeness at me and the dog skittered around in a SOMEONE BETTER LET ME OUTSIDE RIGHT THIS SECOND OR YOU WILL ALL BE SORRY AND ALSO PUDDLY.
I got all that and more when I got home. It was really, really nice. I do love these nutballs, after all.