I went away this weekend. Two whole nights, three whole days with no children. Unencumbered with nappy bag and buggy, just me and adults strolled out the door with a cash card, lippy that wouldn’t get smudged and a microscopically small hand bag. The spaces in my mind that are usually reserved for the very long list of considerations I have when typically leaving the house (Orlee’s snacks, Bow’s pants, everyone’s coats, a negotiation method to get Euna in appropriate footwear, etc.) were redundant. A weird white-noise rattled around inside my head, in place of the usual buzz of planning every minute of the day that it takes to avoid doom and disaster with 3 young children. Turns out, as a solo act, I really am quite low maintenance.
We ate, we drank, we ran and then we ate and drank some more.
Come Sunday, we’re home. Call it my finely tuned mothering instincts or something like Stockholm Syndrome where I’ve come to depend on my captors… Whatever it is, but I feel whole at home. These crazy, stress-inducing, sleep-stealing, street-cred-debilitating, social-life-theiving and wrinkle-realising trio of terrors are the very best part of me. The above doesn’t make them all that easy to enjoy absolutely all of the time but the reminder that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be (for more than a sleep or two) is good.
Because bedtime at an Airbnb could never look this cosy… ❤
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