When I’m with my kids all weekend, I crave a break. Not necessarily to go out and get a manicure or go out to brunch or do anything specific, just a break from the repetitiveness of changing diapers, washing bottles, putting babies down for naps, answering a million toddler questions (No, I can’t turn the rain off, and no, I can’t really explain why). That’s not exactly a unique thought (in fact, it’s completely un-unique), but it’s the truth: Sometimes, what moms want most is a break.
Before kids, I got excited on Friday nights because I had the weekend to do whatever I wanted. Now, I get excited on Sunday nights because someone else is taking care of my kids the next day. Sure, it’s so I can work, but as parents of young kids know: Sometimes work is a break. Or at least it’s a place where you don’t have to wrangle toddlers into swim diapers only to have to change it 10 minutes later only to have to get out of the water 10 minutes after THAT because the kid is cold. Unless you work in childcare, in which case Godspeed. But for the rest of us, it sure is nice to sit down in a desk chair for a few hours and take a break from chasing children.
But of course, like most of us, sometimes I want to be away from work and kids. Time to be alone, or enjoy time JUST with my husband, or hang out with friends minus our kids.
But then… when that happens, a few things come up: 1) I miss my kids, and 2) I don’t really know what to DO with myself.
I’m alone in a hotel room! Yay!
It’s a Sunday morning and I’m sitting in a hotel room in my husband’s hometown. My son is with his grandparents, my daughter is napping in the other room and my husband is still asleep after staying up late for a wedding last night.
The last few days have been hectic. The long drive over here, taking the kids to see their extended family, the rehearsal dinner festivities, getting my kids ready to attend their first wedding, the wedding itself, where my son was one of six flower children but refused to actually walk down the aisle. Yesterday also happened to be my daughter’s first birthday, though we didn’t do much to celebrate as we were already at a party and, well, she’s turning 1. She doesn’t care.
The wedding was fun and nuts. After my son refused to walk down the aisle, he spent the ceremony inside our hotel room taking all the Gatorade bottles and La Croix cans out of the mini fridge and lining them up on the couch. Because my daughter was fussing—loudly, and who can blame her, with a tooth nudging through her gums and 92-degree heat?—I had already retreated to the room, missing almost the entire ceremony.
During the cocktail hour, I held the baby while I followed my son as he trailed behind the older flower girls. “Where we going, guys? Wait for me!” He was enthralled with their game of running up and down the stairs, playing some unidentifiable mix of tag and hide and seek. During my husband’s best man speech, my son sprinted up to him and demanded to take the mic to say ‘hi big guy!’ To the groom before I could get there and snatch him away. Then, of course, there was the whole debacle of trying to get both kids to eat. And we can’t forget about my son hitting the dance floor and kicking unsuspecting guests in the shins.
Even though my husband’s parents were also at the wedding and helping with the kids, the whole thing was a blur. But then I put my daughter to bed in our hotel room (blessedly located right next to the outdoor dance floor, so I could keep an eye on our front door and check on her every 15 minutes) and my son left to spend the night with his grandparents.
I was free!
But I feel sort of … lost?
What do I do now?, I thought. I found my eyes scanning the crowd, searching for my son, before realizing I wasn’t going to find him and he was safely in the care of someone else. My left arm felt slightly sore from carrying my daughter all day, a reminder that she didn’t need me anymore—at least, not for the next 10 hours or so.
All day, I had wanted the freedom to chat with my friends, get to know some of the other guests, eat food with two hands, slowly sip a drink. Now I could do all those things! I could even dance with my husband if I wanted to!
And I did. I socialized, drank a White Claw (actually a spiked Topo Chico; check them out), danced a little bit. But honestly? I missed my kids. I wanted Linnea to be sitting on my hip, giggling as people played peekaboo with her. I wanted Miles to tug on my leg to ask for ‘apple juice,’ which is what he calls yellow Gatorade. I wanted to feel the weight of responsibility and purpose that comes with the kids’ presence.
I know it won’t always be like this. Right now, my kids are 1 and 2. They need me for basically everything. Being a mother to young kids is a huge part of my identity, so I know it makes sense that I sometimes feel out to sea, adrift, when I’m not with them. When I try to make conversation about other topics, I usually end up talking about my kids—which is probably annoying to other people, but it’s just … the main thing that I have to talk about.
I know it won’t always be like this, and I’ll miss this stage when it’s over.
I know it won’t always be like this, and I’ll be relieved when this stage is over.
For right now, I guess I need to accept that I’m just… a mom first, and an independent person who hangs out with her friends second.