Going to The Blog

So...everyone's a-talkin about the Big Event. Some of us have concerns that our children may not make it without Mama for three (or four) whole days, nights included.

I am pretty sure mine will be okay, though I fully expect Daddy to be demanding to sleep in all of next week. Truthfully, we don't leave our kids. I can count the number of times we have gone out together without our children on one hand, and I am fine with that. I actually love it. I didn't put off the childbearing portion of my life for so long just to have someone else raise them.

But we're no fools. We know that even we need breaks from the kids and each other. Our way of doing things usually involves one parent leaving and one staying home with the children. Except 'our' is a relatively new term in our household, as I have not been able (nursing toddler) or willing (toddler) to leave overnight until very recently. Daddy has had a fair share of ski and backpacking trips, but I was slower to ready myself for escape.

It dawned on me that perhaps breastmilk wasn't so necessary in my two year old's diet anymore, and even he could make it through the morning without a little moo (his word). So, back in March, for Elijah's birthday, some girlfriends got together and took me (20 miles) away for the night. It was good.

About a month later, I went up to the city (75 miles!) for another girls' night out. It was actually a smashing good time, but 'we' allowed one of the chicks on board to get way too drunky on a way too empty stomach and she ended up needing to be rescued from herself as she was discovered stirring vomit soup in the (clogged) hotel sink. I haven'tbeen able to write about that night, because one of those victims was a blogger and I couldn't get through the story without

a) peeing myself, or

b) revealing her name.

But now I have much better self control and I'll never tell.



So today I took myself out for a bra. One that might even match the dress I might even wear instead of the one other fitting bra I own, which happens to be black. When you breastfeed for as long as I have, you find that

a) not one bra you had previously worn will ever fit those titties again, and

b) you (I) kinda really need one. (in urban public, so shut up if you are my friend reading this)

With bra, I am now officially ready for Blogher, and so are the girls.

We are ready to plod ahead bravely, boldly abandoning the children for the weekend to their Daddy and his chef skills (scrambly eggs, check; spaghetti & meatballs, check; nachos, check), a weekend in which they won't once be able to have to ask mama to please stop 'working' (ha) on the computer. Not once will I have to change a diaper, read a book in large print, refill a sippy cup, throw away yet another full plate of small cut up uneaten food, brush another person's teeth. Even as I feel the relief as I write those words, I feel the twinge of guilt for feeling it.

This morning, supergirl climbed into bed with me, and skin-to-skin we cuddled for a long time together. "Mama," she whispered, "When are you leaving?"

"In two more days," I assured her.

"Mama! When you go away this weekend to the blog, I won't see you again until Sunday!"

"I know honey, remember we talked about that. Please try not to be sad about Mama going away."

No! Mama! When I see you on Sunday, it will be my birthday and I will be finally seven! It will be a special day because when we come to get you in the city, I will finally get to see YOU, AND I WILL FINALLY BE OLDER! ALL AT THE SAME TIME!"

Indeed.