Vacation was awesome. A week of waking up with nothing more important to decide than “What fun thing should we do today?” The weather was nearly perfect and the kids were so funny and happy and sweet. Each of them did and said countless cute things every day. Our littlest woke up one morning, looked at me, and declared, “I wike Mom.”
It’s good to be wiked.
Even with all this wonderfulness, I did not feel entirely at ease. I had crazy dreams every night, on the order of this: I am a student in a class on a subject I cannot identify. The teacher explains the major project of the course, and I understand none of it. I can’t even figure out which handouts I’m supposed to take.
When Husband and I went away for a few days this summer on our own, I felt 100% relieved of anxiety and sadness. From this difference, I deduce that if my kids are with me, responsibility is with me. There might be plenty of fun and pleasure, but it is not a vacation from work. Kids need to get dressed, eat, be supervised, be coached through tantrums, put to bed.
Sometimes this seems entirely logical: I am a stay-at-home mom, and I need time off from the job of “mom”. Sometimes it makes me feel like a jerk: how can I not love to be with my funny, adorable, smart children? My feelings do not respond readily to logic.