Fleeting Freedom

Last Friday I escaped.

I did. I escaped for nearly an entire day and it was glorious and I never wanted to come back and I'm wishing like hell I was scheduled for a "day pass" again... Whew!

For weeks I had so looked forward to my daycation in Galena with the gals. WEEKS of counting down days, hours, minutes and seconds until I could feel like a real person again. I was ready to pee my pants. When Friday finally rolled around I thought I would burst. I hardly slept the night before and it had zero to do with the baby that delights in waking me at all hours. I got up, SHOWERED, and prepared to head out. It'd been a LONG time since I'd been on a road trip. I'd nearly forgotten how they worked. there was girl talk, and donuts, caffeine and a vulgar mix CD that was completely inappropriate for the ears of babes. Awesome. We arrived at our destination and promptly walked straight into a restaurant and perused the wine list. there was food. I'm pretty sure the food was good. The wine was fantastic. Upon completion of wine and lunch was dairy time. By that I mean that two of us are nursing mothers and, unless Galena would like to carve a niche into the coveted breast milk industry... it was time to pump. We splintered off from the group and stomped off to the mommy mobile. Though we are child-free, we still feel their wrath and are at their mercy. As we were relaxing into the hum of lactation, praying the lot stayed empty, we spied "courtesy tickets" tucked into the wiper blades. Courtesy parking tickets. What a polite town. "Please immediately pay $0." Will do Buck-o. As we finish up, we reunited with the unburdened and begin to shop. Two doors and half of a block later, it was time for a much deserved refueling. We stepped into the nearest bar.

I've never thought I was one for peer pressure, especially at my rapidly advancing age. All I wanted was a simple Bloody Mary. Spicy, tangy, perhaps with a pickle bonus. Apparently this particular established had had their bloody Marys featured in Gourmet Magazine. That's all well and good. I just wanted booze and V8. I finally succumbed to the pressure of my friends and the ever so punny waiter, and ordered the mother with Grey Goose. Minutes later a fork lift barrels through the bar, back up lights flashing, dinning my bath tub sized beverage. A veritable vegetable garden has been finely skewered and placed lovingly on top. My drink is mocking me. I make my group swear to cut me off if I begin to find the waiter's humor at all charming or amusing, and put lips to glass.

So, time for more shopping. My inhibitions are at an all time low, thank you Bloody Mary, and I realize that I've changed with age. I am, what I would call, a "reformed shopaholic", if you consider lack of opportunity a reformation. I have 2 kids. I look like something scraped off of the bottom of sneakers. Boutiques and I are not on speaking terms. Here I am, in a quaint shopping village, devoid of children and appropriately drunk. I find now, my method of evaluating purchases no longer revolves around money, trends, or necessity. I gauge my purchases based solely on whether or not I will have to dust around said item. If I buy this and place it on a surface, and months from now it is moved by tiny hands... will there be significant evidence that it had been there? Most likely yes, so in the shop it stays. Let them dust it.

As the day progressed, my shopping monkey has firmly returned to his preferred perch: my back. I see an $80 wreath made of wood chips. Its glorious. I must have it. There is no price tag, perhaps it is only a display, but I find myself easily slipping into the mindset that everything has its price. I'm sure I could convince the manager to sell me said wood chip wreath in all of its glory. I refrain, and it was only later that I googled "wood chip wreath" and found it for the aforementioned price. Next, there was a magnificent shellacked gourd bird with 3-foot red feather plumage complete with swing. COMPLETE WITH SWING! I think, I'd like that, I'm sure I have a place for it, who wouldn't want a giant, swinging, red gourd bird? He must swing in my bathroom. Thankfully, I did not have the $294.00 required to own that monstrosity.

Eventually, The day began to slow for me, as I was unable to spend the night... flipping children. I found myself getting sleepy (it was 6:30 pm) and worrying about the solo drive home. I said my goodbye's and found myself dreading the return to life. These ladies had a good twelve hours to go before pumpkins and mice returned! I was insanely jealous, and I honestly toyed with the idea of stealing them away and returning them home along with me. You know, the whole misery loves company thing.

The drive back was straight out of a c-level horror flick. Dark, isolated, lonely highways with nothing along them and a regular smattering here and there of what I sincerely hope was animal blood. Pardon the imagery, just setting the mood. I found the isolation creepy, so I cranked up the inappropriate music and got lost in thought.

I had a day. AN entire day where I only changed 5 diapers. No one screamed "MULK" at me, and I didn't have to go running immediately to serve it like a good little butler. NO one threw up on me. I didn't have to say "poopy", though I probably did. When I used the restroom, sweet friends held the door shut for me rather than fighting to escape and expose my mommy bits. I didn't have to watch Caillou. I, of course, called my husband 700 times, but this was half of what my inner control freak wanted. It was a compromise. He had sharp, short answers that were low on details, though I KNOW I heard Cindy from Wendy's telling the tale of my son's dinner from behind the drive through mic. I'd know that nugget peddling bitch anywhere. I got home late, though not as late as the old me would've liked. I slipped out of my cute adult costume and into my comfies. I crawled into bed with my husband on one side and dozing baby on the other. Everyone had been kissed and all was well... drifting off to dreamland. As I lazily shut my eyes, my tiny infant snapped his open and informed me that it was rude of me not to have asked how his day was. He proceeded to tell me in great detail.

All in all, it was a wonderful escape. Though I was a psychotic ninny to return to my asylum, it wasn't until my SUV was pointed toward home that I began to feel normal. I was only pretending to be that fun, free spirit. On the inside I was cutting up chicken nuggets, and screaming at people that I'm the mommy and I can watch The View if I want to. While I had a great time, and I will count down the seconds to my next escape, I'm glad to have my own brand of normal in between. now, if you ask me during my next escape... I'll swear I'm never going home again!