Occasionally, I need a break from “momming.” I thought I’d orchestrated just such an opportunity when I planned a short trip to Kentucky and neither my kids nor Doo could make it. Unfortunately, I came down with a mild stomach bug the first night and missed out on most of the fun. But my couch confinement did allow me to catch some truly horrible programming, including Netflix’s “The 100” (seriously, it’s so terrible, it’s good, even with a low-grade fever and gut rot).
I assumed in my absence the house would fall apart, but I also hoped that my lovely children would take pity on their pukey mom and pull it together by the time I got home. Maybe do some dishes, perhaps make a bed. Amateur thinking, to be sure. I walked in to a Chernobyl-like first floor and was greeted not with “How are you feeling?” but rather “What’s for dinner?” and “When are you going to Meijer?”
I clearly wasn’t sick enough to garner any sympathy, for my family thought nothing of calling for my immediate return to parenting. Even Doo made mention of a task he wanted me to handle. Apparently, if I am not actively projectile vomiting, I can still go for milk and call on an insurance claim.
It’s a true indication of how blecht I felt that I was able to suppress the screams of frustration and disappointment. I simply ignored my precious little selfish angels, made space amidst the unmatched socks and discarded Capri Suns and downed three more awful-but-oddly-compelling episodes of “The 100.” Fend for yourselves, peeps. I’m still on my mommy break.
Peace out.
