Two weeks ago, I left mah babies. I left ’em. I did.
And. Ya’ll? It. Was. The awesomest.
It was the best leaving I have ever done. It was so good, it wasn’t even an “I love you guys, mommah will miss you so much and gosh I am sorta sad I’m leaving” kinda bittersweet all “awwww” leaving. Nope. It was more like an Ethel Merman “CLEAR OUTTA MY WAY FELLAS VA VA VA VOOM I AM SO OUT OF HERE I AM ALREADY LEFT” belt it out brand of leaving. My leaving was paired with its own musical number, an air horn, and some confetti. At 4 a.m. I actually high kicked it to the car. When I was patted down in the airport I just smiled and announced proudly: “My kids are at home! Without me!” The TSA guys were non plussed. But anyway! I leaved so well that I kinda passed up the leaving part and just lived.
For three whole days.
In da Yew Nork Big City, ya’ll (as the blonde calls it.)
I am now going to write a book:
How to Leave Your Sweet Baybies in the Care of Well Meaning Husband and All Without an Ounce of Guilt, I Swear.
1. The husband WILL feed them. Even though he doesn’t seem to know where any clocks are. Or how clocks even work. But the cat will remind him.
2. Toothpaste can stand in as a snack.
3. If you didn’t actually see the pee, it didn’t actually happen in the living room.
4. Texting covers a multitude of sins. Hearing those sweet baby voices is like reality television; once you get sucked into the soft timbre of three year old lisping, you’re on that phone every hour for another episode.
5. Your blonde one will not resent you for missing his birthday.
Sigh. I know what you’re thinking. You were all… “You GO girl!! We all need time out for ourselves! We moms NEED that time away! Look at you with your rollie suitcase and your new shoes from Target! You even wore lipstick! For the TSA guy! You GO lady! You GO on that trip and you… Wait. WHAT?
“WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU? YOU LEFT YOUR SWEET FIRSTBORN ON HIS FIFTH BIRTHDAY? To prancercize your way around some big city? Tramp.”
Hold on, I can explain. I guess. Sorta. My girlfriends wanted to meet up in New York City. It was planned a long time ago, evidently prior to the creation of calendars because when I booked the trip I was completely unaware of one small conflicting detail: the blonde precious one’s 5th birthday and all.
Booking the trip and chatting crazily on facebook: I was all.. I am so there.
My peeps: *squealing* “Yay! the girl from Kansas is coming! Quaintness!”
I was all…”This is so not in the budget. But I am so there.”
They were all… “It’ll be OK! It’s a chance to spend horrible amounts of money on cabs and shopping! Denial! Denial! “
I was all… “So can’t afford this, but we could Ebay the cat…”
Peeps: “Yes! Sell it! Denial! DENIAL!!”
I was all… “But hmmm that date looks suspect – I think something mighta happened on it, like perhaps 5 years ago I spent a good 10 gajillion hours in the hospital trying to remove wee blondie from mah nether regions…??” Oh, snap.
Still, I was all… “I’m going. Yep. I am in. Nether regions are all fine now, and I’MA GOIN’ TO DA BIG CITY! WHOOOO HOOOOOOOOO! Birthday smirthday. I’ll pay for the therapy later wee blondie.” (And there went Momsie – step ball kick, step ball kick, right out the door. Future Rockette.)
And my people, it was good. It WAS. The trip was one of those girl times that we need once in a while – full of non stop chattering and cupcakes and lox (not together) and excellent sights. New York is alive and well, I have to to tell you. That city has verve, I tell you. And I never use the word verve.
Amidst its streets, I suddenly had the superpowers to dodge and weave and hop into cabs as a New York heir apparent. I even attempted to avoid looking like a tourist by not snapping pictures every 5 minutes. (Trying to take pix on the subway while also all cool and New Yorkie? Doesn’t work. )
And I was very very lucky to have a brilliant husband who kept the boys fed and watered while I was being ridiculous.
The JOY of spending time with these women. Oh la la…
So here is my Guilt Free New York City Top Ten:
10. JFK has a lot of great shops where you can spend blood money on small plastic toys that will frost over that guilt with great big dollops of “I GOT PREEEEESSSSENTS MOMMAH IS AWESOME BIRTHDAYS CARRY OVER EVERYTHING IS ALLLL RIGHTY.”
9. When you come from a small town with one (I know. But it’s awesome) stoplight, and you exit those big glass doors of the airport out to the street: New York can be a bit… honkish.
8. You start to talk with the accent real fast.
7. The accent then starts turning all New Jersey. It’s all right. You blend.
6. You attempt continuing with this accent when you get home because it’s awesome. Weird looks occur. Your ego shrivels a bit and you move on with your life. Sigh.* Good bye cool New York hipness.
5. When your cab driver says, “Look, they’re shooting over there,” and you blurt out, “WHO?” and the guy chuckles at you, you realize you just hit the big fat tourist zone again. No one is getting shot. It’s a television show. Be calm.
4. WAIT… they just film stuff here, like all the time? A little part of your brain poofs with the amazingness of it all.
3. No one in New York has seemingly heard of tater tot casserole. This is madness! I tried to explain the totty golden goodness, and I was met with just silence and a lot of blinking. This is a major flaw in the awesomeness of New York, but I worked past it. Next time I’ll come bearing gifts. Not sure how Mr. TSA will deal, but I can handle him.
2. When you walk out of your Brooklyn bed and breakfast because it’s morning, and you want to go outside! and then at the stoop you make weird eye contact with a bunch of sullen slouchy dudes lounging up against their (?) cars and they just kinda stare at you… and you opt for the next logical step: You start waving at them excitedly because, Wow! This is rather different than your front porch back home! Where are all the Big Wheels? You realize you should be wearing a sign that says: Overly Enthusiastic Tourist! Very Happy to Be Here! I’m Not Scared!
1. You love this city. Almost as much as you love the girls you are visiting. The whole weekend is just an interlude of “Heart and Soul.”
But here’s the best ending to the best weekend I’ve had in a long time:
Home. Two a.m. Front porch. Front door. Squeaky floorboard. Bags dropped to floor. Up stairs. Pat the cat. Pat the husband. Open green door. Two boys. Strewn on the beds like Gumby dolls. One red. One blonde. Hugs and kisses on cheeks so soft and warm with sleep. The scent of boy and sleep and soap and tossled hair. Arms wrap around. “Mommah… I am so happy. You’re here.”
And then… JOY.
For those of you who would like to learn how to blend: