It’s seriously happening. I’m spending the night away from my son. My first in 3.4 years. And all thanks to the internet.
I posted a few months back on a moms email list looking for a place in the metro area where I could just go and work on the laptop all day long without a barista giving me a hard time. The idea was to have some time to myself before we launched into a house move that I knew would seriously drain my already-low emotional and mental resources. I was hoping for an overnight but didn’t want anything fancy – just time and space to write.
Some people suggested I go on a retreat somewhere an hour or two away. But I didn’t want to waste the driving time, for one. And I also thought it would be fun to just be a tourist on the other/another side of DC.
Then, a woman I met at a breastfeeding class when our kids were just a few months old – three years ago! — wrote with a suggestion for a coffeeshop and went on to extend an offer to let me stay in her place while she was out of town later in the summer. I’d communicated with this woman just a smidge via another email list she started up when our kids were still babes and had run into her (and her partner and second child!) at a park a few weeks before my online posting. But that’s it. We never had a playdate or in depth conversations. She’s just that nice.
So I have arrived. Here I sit, in a lovely home that is much smarter and more together than I think my larger home will ever be. I realize both how scattered I really am and also how long it’s been since I visited a friend, stepped inside someone else’s world. At least without my little one in tow and my main m.o. to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or any of the host’s things, or any of the non-sharing playmates who might cross his path.
I’m just plain here. Out of my space. Out of my regular head. Not expecting a chubby little hand to come take mine any moment, reach down my shirt, or grab some of whatever I’m eating. It does feel like vacation.
Thank you, dear acquaintance and sister mama. Thank you.
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