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Last Wednesday while we were up in Connecticut vacationing at Kellermann’s, I got the opportunity to steal away for a night in Manhattan. My husband had planned to go with me because my BFF had offered to watch the kids, but when we got there and saw how freakin’ stressed and busy she was about her first week as a fifth grade teacher, we didn’t dare impose on her any more than we already had by taking over her house for the week. So Chris agreed to stay with the kids while I went down there alone. I was all, “Really? Are you sure?” for about half a second, and then I was all, “Alright, thanks. See ya!”
I don’t know why I have guilt for feeling this way, but I was giddy on the drive down. First of all, it was GORGEOUS weather. The kind of weather I never see in Texas except for maybe a day or two in the Spring and an afternoon or two in the Fall. If you’ve never driven down the Merritt Parkway with the windows rolled all the way down, letting 80 degree, dry Northeastern wind blow through your hair while the stereo blasts, I mean BLASTS “Tell Me Something Good,” then you honestly need to put it on your bucket list.
The drive was a ribbon of memories. I lived in New York for five years and did the reverse drive up the Merritt about once every few months to visit Tracy in Waterbury. My ex-husband’s uncle lives in Wilton, one of Connecticut’s most beautiful towns, and as I passed through it I was reminded of homemade Indian food and ping-pong championships that took place in his basement, where a box of old photographs of mine still resides after accidentally getting left beyond when I picked up my remaining items we had stored there because they wouldn’t fit in our tiny Nolita apartment. I want that box of photographs back so badly, but I guess not badly enough to suffer the fifteen minutes of awkwardness it would take to knock on his door and ask for them back.
I had planned to spend the night at my friend Erich’s. Erich is soap opera star gorgeous (according to my Mom, mostly, who has always had a crush on him), but gay as the day is long, as you witnessed in his donning of the wig in my previous post of photos. Anyway, we’ve been friends since before he was admittedly gay because he was one of my short-lived high school boyfriends, and has never ceased treating me with the utmost respect as a result. He lives on 9th Avenue, right around the corner from the ad agency that hired me and moved me to New York from Los Angeles in 2001, just two weeks after 9/11. So when I parked my car in the parking lot, I realized it was the same garage we used to rent cars from to drive to client meetings in Westchester. Then, I pass the coffee shop my partner and I used to go to work when the office got too stuffy. Then, I pass the diner where the same partner and I had 98% of our lunches and came up with 45% of our ideas, mostly the good ones, and where I discovered he had diabetes because he would order a cheeseburger AND fried chicken, and drink copious amounts of water and pee all the time. Maybe we spent too much time together?
Anyway, I am getting off the point, and yes there was one. The point is, that drive to New York, the subsequent meeting with my friend Kelly—who I have been friends with since I was 17—on the roof of the Gansevoort Hotel and the cocktails we drank while watching the sunset, the cab we hailed up to the restaurant to meet Jeff, Erich and Gail, who I have known since 7th grade, 9th grade and my junior year of college respectively, was the most liberated I’ve felt in years. Years!
I didn’t have any 20-pound babies to hold while trying to make a bottle because they were too needy to put down. I didn’t have to peek down the back of any diapers to check for poop. I didn’t have to rock anyone to sleep. Or, be woken while in a deep one myself. I felt light and glowy and, for the first time in years, YOUNG.
I don’t have to tell any of you mothers that this feeling of liberation came with a heavy heart of guilt. I was without my children and this made me feel good. The guilt comes because it makes it seem like I don’t love my children. Like I can’t wait to get away from them. Like they are a burden. Like I need to escape.
And you mothers also know none of that’s true. Because all of us wish we could feel as carefree as we did before we had children, when we were too naïve to realize how much we should have cherished that feeling. It wasn’t too long after I had my first child that I realized I would NEVER RELAX AGAIN. I miss feeling relaxed.
So I got to revisit that feeling for one glorious night.
That’s it. Just one night. It’s all I asked for. It’s all I need.
The rest of the time, I’m happy to be the much-needed mother of two darling babies. I’m happy to change poopy diapers and snap the tops of popsicles and push the swing and watch the Wonder Pets. I absolutely love my children. And when I got back to Connecticut the next day at noon, they seemed lovelier and more beautiful than ever.
If that's even possible.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
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6 comments:
This is a great post.
I know exactly what you mean about feeling liberated and then feeling guilty about feeling liberated.
My kids are older now (7 & 11) so they are wayyyy easire than when they were babies. I rarely get that desperate feeling that I must escape for a short time.
But I DO remember it. Oh, so well.
Yes.
Let's go out when the weather changes ,,,
I always love a post about scenery I can specifically relate to. And the Merritt is an example of such scenery (as are Waterbury and Wilton and one-nighters to NYC where unexpected amounts of fun are had). Here's to temporary liberation!
Your excursion sounds rejuvenating and WONDERFUL....
When even a mere evening of maternal liberation results in a discovery like this (and I quote)...
"And when I got back to Connecticut the next day at noon, they seemed lovelier and more beautiful than ever."
Call me crazy, but I think that's healthy...and good for the offspring as well.
Yes, I totally get this. I get a small taste of this every week when I go work at a local coffehouse alone. Wish I could have a night in NYC on my own, as well!
Sounds like you had a lovely time. It makes me realize how much I really, really need a night out.
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Last Wednesday while we were up in Connecticut vacationing at Kellermann’s, I got the opportunity to steal away for a night in Manhattan. My husband had planned to go with me because my BFF had offered to watch the kids, but when we got there and saw how freakin’ stressed and busy she was about her first week as a fifth grade teacher, we didn’t dare impose on her any more than we already had by taking over her house for the week. So Chris agreed to stay with the kids while I went down there alone. I was all, “Really? Are you sure?” for about half a second, and then I was all, “Alright, thanks. See ya!”
I don’t know why I have guilt for feeling this way, but I was giddy on the drive down. First of all, it was GORGEOUS weather. The kind of weather I never see in Texas except for maybe a day or two in the Spring and an afternoon or two in the Fall. If you’ve never driven down the Merritt Parkway with the windows rolled all the way down, letting 80 degree, dry Northeastern wind blow through your hair while the stereo blasts, I mean BLASTS “Tell Me Something Good,” then you honestly need to put it on your bucket list.
The drive was a ribbon of memories. I lived in New York for five years and did the reverse drive up the Merritt about once every few months to visit Tracy in Waterbury. My ex-husband’s uncle lives in Wilton, one of Connecticut’s most beautiful towns, and as I passed through it I was reminded of homemade Indian food and ping-pong championships that took place in his basement, where a box of old photographs of mine still resides after accidentally getting left beyond when I picked up my remaining items we had stored there because they wouldn’t fit in our tiny Nolita apartment. I want that box of photographs back so badly, but I guess not badly enough to suffer the fifteen minutes of awkwardness it would take to knock on his door and ask for them back.
I had planned to spend the night at my friend Erich’s. Erich is soap opera star gorgeous (according to my Mom, mostly, who has always had a crush on him), but gay as the day is long, as you witnessed in his donning of the wig in my previous post of photos. Anyway, we’ve been friends since before he was admittedly gay because he was one of my short-lived high school boyfriends, and has never ceased treating me with the utmost respect as a result. He lives on 9th Avenue, right around the corner from the ad agency that hired me and moved me to New York from Los Angeles in 2001, just two weeks after 9/11. So when I parked my car in the parking lot, I realized it was the same garage we used to rent cars from to drive to client meetings in Westchester. Then, I pass the coffee shop my partner and I used to go to work when the office got too stuffy. Then, I pass the diner where the same partner and I had 98% of our lunches and came up with 45% of our ideas, mostly the good ones, and where I discovered he had diabetes because he would order a cheeseburger AND fried chicken, and drink copious amounts of water and pee all the time. Maybe we spent too much time together?
Anyway, I am getting off the point, and yes there was one. The point is, that drive to New York, the subsequent meeting with my friend Kelly—who I have been friends with since I was 17—on the roof of the Gansevoort Hotel and the cocktails we drank while watching the sunset, the cab we hailed up to the restaurant to meet Jeff, Erich and Gail, who I have known since 7th grade, 9th grade and my junior year of college respectively, was the most liberated I’ve felt in years. Years!
I didn’t have any 20-pound babies to hold while trying to make a bottle because they were too needy to put down. I didn’t have to peek down the back of any diapers to check for poop. I didn’t have to rock anyone to sleep. Or, be woken while in a deep one myself. I felt light and glowy and, for the first time in years, YOUNG.
I don’t have to tell any of you mothers that this feeling of liberation came with a heavy heart of guilt. I was without my children and this made me feel good. The guilt comes because it makes it seem like I don’t love my children. Like I can’t wait to get away from them. Like they are a burden. Like I need to escape.
And you mothers also know none of that’s true. Because all of us wish we could feel as carefree as we did before we had children, when we were too naïve to realize how much we should have cherished that feeling. It wasn’t too long after I had my first child that I realized I would NEVER RELAX AGAIN. I miss feeling relaxed.
So I got to revisit that feeling for one glorious night.
That’s it. Just one night. It’s all I asked for. It’s all I need.
The rest of the time, I’m happy to be the much-needed mother of two darling babies. I’m happy to change poopy diapers and snap the tops of popsicles and push the swing and watch the Wonder Pets. I absolutely love my children. And when I got back to Connecticut the next day at noon, they seemed lovelier and more beautiful than ever.
If that's even possible.
Liberation guilt
I don’t know why I have guilt for feeling this way, but I was giddy on the drive down. First of all, it was GORGEOUS weather. The kind of weather I never see in Texas except for maybe a day or two in the Spring and an afternoon or two in the Fall. If you’ve never driven down the Merritt Parkway with the windows rolled all the way down, letting 80 degree, dry Northeastern wind blow through your hair while the stereo blasts, I mean BLASTS “Tell Me Something Good,” then you honestly need to put it on your bucket list.
The drive was a ribbon of memories. I lived in New York for five years and did the reverse drive up the Merritt about once every few months to visit Tracy in Waterbury. My ex-husband’s uncle lives in Wilton, one of Connecticut’s most beautiful towns, and as I passed through it I was reminded of homemade Indian food and ping-pong championships that took place in his basement, where a box of old photographs of mine still resides after accidentally getting left beyond when I picked up my remaining items we had stored there because they wouldn’t fit in our tiny Nolita apartment. I want that box of photographs back so badly, but I guess not badly enough to suffer the fifteen minutes of awkwardness it would take to knock on his door and ask for them back.
I had planned to spend the night at my friend Erich’s. Erich is soap opera star gorgeous (according to my Mom, mostly, who has always had a crush on him), but gay as the day is long, as you witnessed in his donning of the wig in my previous post of photos. Anyway, we’ve been friends since before he was admittedly gay because he was one of my short-lived high school boyfriends, and has never ceased treating me with the utmost respect as a result. He lives on 9th Avenue, right around the corner from the ad agency that hired me and moved me to New York from Los Angeles in 2001, just two weeks after 9/11. So when I parked my car in the parking lot, I realized it was the same garage we used to rent cars from to drive to client meetings in Westchester. Then, I pass the coffee shop my partner and I used to go to work when the office got too stuffy. Then, I pass the diner where the same partner and I had 98% of our lunches and came up with 45% of our ideas, mostly the good ones, and where I discovered he had diabetes because he would order a cheeseburger AND fried chicken, and drink copious amounts of water and pee all the time. Maybe we spent too much time together?
Anyway, I am getting off the point, and yes there was one. The point is, that drive to New York, the subsequent meeting with my friend Kelly—who I have been friends with since I was 17—on the roof of the Gansevoort Hotel and the cocktails we drank while watching the sunset, the cab we hailed up to the restaurant to meet Jeff, Erich and Gail, who I have known since 7th grade, 9th grade and my junior year of college respectively, was the most liberated I’ve felt in years. Years!
I didn’t have any 20-pound babies to hold while trying to make a bottle because they were too needy to put down. I didn’t have to peek down the back of any diapers to check for poop. I didn’t have to rock anyone to sleep. Or, be woken while in a deep one myself. I felt light and glowy and, for the first time in years, YOUNG.
I don’t have to tell any of you mothers that this feeling of liberation came with a heavy heart of guilt. I was without my children and this made me feel good. The guilt comes because it makes it seem like I don’t love my children. Like I can’t wait to get away from them. Like they are a burden. Like I need to escape.
And you mothers also know none of that’s true. Because all of us wish we could feel as carefree as we did before we had children, when we were too naïve to realize how much we should have cherished that feeling. It wasn’t too long after I had my first child that I realized I would NEVER RELAX AGAIN. I miss feeling relaxed.
So I got to revisit that feeling for one glorious night.
That’s it. Just one night. It’s all I asked for. It’s all I need.
The rest of the time, I’m happy to be the much-needed mother of two darling babies. I’m happy to change poopy diapers and snap the tops of popsicles and push the swing and watch the Wonder Pets. I absolutely love my children. And when I got back to Connecticut the next day at noon, they seemed lovelier and more beautiful than ever.
If that's even possible.