I’ve never left my kids. Never, not even once, to go away for a weekend, or even a night. My husband was dense enough to suggest that they were, in fact, left when I was in the hospital having another one, but the withering, scalding look he got made him reconsider that idea.
In less than two weeks, I have been invited to go away for the weekend to Seattle. All alone. By myself. No kids. No husband. No one pulling on me, barfing on me, needing crackers or milk or to be changed. No one requiring my adoring gaze while they perform a cool new trick or draw a wobbly crayon heart. No one waking me up in the middle of the night wanting drink of water, or a kiss or anything at all…
I will get to have dinner with colleagues. I will get uninterrupted adult conversation, meals in restaurants without clowns or large rats as their mascot, a night or two of completely uninterrupted sleep, which I haven’t had in over five years, and the ability to poke around in my free time in bookstores and cafes or wherever my whim takes me.
So why am I unsure of going? Why, when my husband is totally competent and encouraging me to take advantage of the invitation, am I hesitating?