Pseudo-Single Splendor

Yesterday afternoon I dashed out of class and down the slippery front steps of the School of Nursing. We had about an hour, enough time, but with traffic one never knows. And Partner admitted she was rather peckish and would like to get something to eat. "Because, you know," she said, "I don't want to pay ten dollars for a bag of chips at the airport."

But we made it with time enough to spare. I dragged the cases out of the trunk and Partner hustled them to the curbside check in. I turned off the car, slid the stroller out, and then lifted the Cricket into my arms. He was looking especially dapper in navy blue fleece pants, a t-neck and a red fleece vest. If a one year old can look sporty or apres ski, our kid did. I kissed him ten thousand times and strapped him into the stroller. Partner came back from checking in, and we embraced the way same sex couples do at the airport-- slightly self-conscious-- and then she took off with the boy, pulling him behind her so I could wave until she reached the door. Then I called out a final farewell, tears streaming, and got back into the car. It was a grey day. I turned off the NPR and let the sounds of planes taking off above my head fill the car. The rising rumble seemed to match my mood. Alone. Alone. With a deep crescendo, the final note almost a moan.

Cricket and Partner are gone for the weekend, leaving me behind. I had/have big plans to study my brains out. So far, I haven't done that badly. But I have a small horrible admission: despite my tears at the airport, since that time I have been having a really good time. I'm liking being on my own. And feeling slightly guilty about my guilty pleasure.

For example, I'm blogging. I know I don't blog nearly enough now, and I miss it. I'm a writer, and when I don't get to write, even here at the blog, I feel it. And here I sit on the couch, a big (and I mean big) glass of red wine next to me. A carry out box from the new posh market around the corner. The house is spotless related to a late afternoon showing. (Buy my damn house already.) I am playing music quite loudly.

Last night I met a friend and her family at the pub: four kids and her husband. One would think this would engender some pretty intense longing my for own family, but instead I just loved having a pint and some fish & chips without worrying about Cricket. (Too smoky? Eating enough? Behaving well? Having fun?) I came home, got into bed and read with the light on. And the TV. Something that hasn't happened, in oh, say the 13 months that Cricket has been sleeping in our room.

I went to a movie alone. It was blissful.

Tomorrow I am going to sleep in. And then study more.

I don't think I'm a bad mother for enjoying this so much, but there's part of me that wonders if I shouldn't be missing them both more right now. I have a feeling I'll be slightly desperate by Monday when the return, but as of now, I'm still in pseudo-single Shangri-La. I'm contemplating a bath. The world, I feel, is ripe with possibility. There's a larger commentary here, I think, about mothering and how as much as you adore your kids, the prospect or in this case, reality of a vacation from them can be soul serving. Lest I forget that it is work (which is highly doubtful), this small respite has reminded me of that. As much as I loathed the thought of this weekend, I might insist on biannual weekends like this from now on.

Still, when I return the airport Monday afternoon, I know that when I see the faces of my Partner and the Cricket, even the grey Michigan day will seem brighter, and probably more so for my weekend alone. The planes taking off into the clouds won't seem so obliterating an image, and this time their roaring take-off note will sound fullness in my heart at my family reuinted.

But really, until that time, pass the wine...