I went away this weekend. A impromptu house sitting trip with my dear friend and her six-year-old daughter to her parents' Lake House. We idled the hours away on the dock, or the screened porch, or sprawled on the living room floor playing marathon hands of UNO and laughing until I couldn't breath. I tried - and was humiliated at - Wii for the first time. We ate cookie dough by the spoonful and then, when the girl went to bed, my friend and I watched a sad movie. And cried. And lamented how we hate sad movies. I read chapter after chapter of my book and slept until 9:00AM. And I took my coffee to the porch to watch the sun on the water in peace, and listen to quiet sounds of a lakeside morning. It was glorious.
And then yesterday afternoon, the carefree hours of the last day started to be strangely uncomfortable. Like a new pair of shoes that made me feel sassy and young at first but eventually started to rub my foot raw. I became increasingly restless to start our trek back home. And when I finally walked back in the door yesterday evening, I breathed a sigh of relief. The noise and chaos of my home settled back on me like a mantle. Heavy with the weight of responsibility but perfect and comforting for how well it fit.
I wish I could do this every month. Go away for a day to rest and rejuvenate. And more importantly be reminded that as irksome as my children can be, I am lost without them. Like a game that seemed fun when I opened the box...until realized the most important pieces were missing.