We are terrible parents. Not in the cosmic sense, of course. I actually believe that my husband Doo and I have done a decent job of raising responsible kids. Sure, they’ll need therapy – I neither hug nor express emotion – but on balance, they should be good to go.
No, I’m talking about the fact that while one of our twins will be heading to France to study abroad, Doo and I will be on the other side of the U.S. Frolicking in Vegas. On The Strip. Our poor neglected child will literally have to see himself off, from Chicago O’Hare, mind you, with two giant checked bags and a student visa, while we gamble and drink and take in the majesty that is Cirque du Soleil.
I know. The guilt has been gnawing at me for weeks now. Doo is attending a conference that was rescheduled from last year, and back in early summer I decided to join him since we’ve never been to Sin City. Our Frenchie hadn’t yet learned his leave date and we didn’t realize the conflict when we booked his flight. So, we have to say our goodbyes days before and trust that he can get to the airport three hours away and then negotiate international travel on his own. During a global pandemic. Did I mention he’ll be gone a whole year? “Best of luck, son. The penny slots are calling. Adieu until June!”
I suppose one could argue this will be a test of our parenting prowess. If he succeeds, we’ve done our job. If not, well, we’ll always have spinning acrobats and blackjack. Let it ride!
Peace out.
