The Real Staycation

After I dropped the boys off and went home, I faced days of being alone.

I have never lived alone. I grew up in a big house, which was always full of people. In school I had roommates, and after school I had housemates. I have lived in a house with three rambunctious boys for years. I am accustomed to noise.

I would like to say that I didn’t know what to do with myself, but that would be untrue. I immediately set out to do the things that I can only do when the boys aren’t there. I did a lot of laundry. I washed the icky mattresses the boys have used since giving up night-time pull-ups. I slept in until after 7am. Every. Single. Morning. I sorted through all of the boys toys, putting some aside for goodwill and throwing broken ones in the trash.

I even got to go out and meet some friends to go over music without worrying about leaving the boys behind. I spoke to at least three people on the phone without interruption.

I woke on Friday at almost 8am. There was no rush to do anything at all. All three pets descended the staircase with me, asking to be fed. The house was quiet, and had never been so clean. I felt as though I had some control over something, and that all would be well. I left to buy groceries feeling very zen.

And then, before I could go through the file cabinet, or clear out the art drawers in the kitchen, or get to the outside toys at all, the boys came home.

They brought with them four loads of dirty, sandy laundry, some of which is still sitting in Wall-E suitcases in the living room. They immediately asked to be fed, as they hadn’t had lunch. They were cranky and needed baths. By the time dinner rolled around they had managed to cover both the bedroom and the toy room with various cards and toys and blankets, and I had tripped over the same pair of shoes in three different locations.

That, my friends, is what a real staycation is. And mine was over.