MOM imploded, again. The Master Of Multitasking took on one task too many and it wasn’t a “just say no” to something that did it. A husband traveling nonstop for two months, missing his kids’ music performances, baseball games, Boy Scout meetings and worst of all, his math tutor rotation. He’s the engineer and best fit to revisit quadratic equations and graphing parabolas. To all this stuff she couldn’t say, “No. I won’t do it.” She started to crack.
She cracked because she also learned any hopes of momentary escape during spring or summer breaks evaporated. A special jazz band performance, an honor, ate up the first weekend of spring break and dad’s lack of vacation days spelled stay-cation the rest of the week. MOM swallowed this one. It was the chance of making it up over July 4thweek that sent her teetering over the edge. High school football camps, Boy Scout camp and dad’s aversion to travel over a holiday crushed the family vacation plan, her plan. She’s trying to be grown up about it. Other MOMs have it far worse. “Buck up,” she tells herself.
It took one simple question from an eleven-year-old to open the floodgates. “Why are you so mad?” MOM is slamming around in the kitchen to put dinner on the table, trying to hold the fury inside. Ironically, nobody had ever asked her this before. As she served up the fish and rice, a husband’s healthy, low cholesterol favorite, she replied, “I’m mad because I’m always doing it all. I cook all the time. I clean up all the time. I wash the clothes all the time. I drive all the time. Every day is the same.” MOM barely choked down dinner before retreating to her bedroom for a good cry and alone time. Here her MAD brain is furiously at work. “I must get away. I must!” A solution surfaces.
“Why not Europe?” she considers. MOM’s eleven-year-old was free to travel. A fellow tennis lover, the two of them would have a jolly time in merry old England for Wimbledon. MOM could meet her long lost Swedish friend she just reunited with on facebook. “Take it out of my paycheck. I’m going and that’s that!” Click. Click. Click. Like modern-day ruby slippers, she could transport herself to some place else but home via the laptop, sans sparkle.
The research ensued and soon, the expense became so great, no anger could justify the sense of credit card entitlement. Guilt and rational thinking sink into her brain. “I’m not that MAD or deserving. I need to share this kind of trip with the whole family.”
Plan B. Tennis became the driver. A huge tennis tournament was coming to Palm Desert in two weeks. All the big names are playing. This is doable. However, the weekend accommodations are close to sold out. So MOM pulls her son from school to go. Why not? Isn’t her 8th grader always telling her, “Grades don’t matter in middle school.” MOM finally gets it now. For the cost of one Wimbledon ticket, European airfare not included, the two could go for three nights and two days of tennis. This was a winner. Everyone bought into the plan, except Big Brother, he turned down the invitation. “I don’t care if you go to Canada to watch tennis. I don’t want to go.” Dad was not even an option.
The youngest son turned into a true gentleman on the trip. He was like a mini-dad. He managed most of the luggage, throwing his duffle on to MOM’s wheeled bag. He loaded it in and out of the car, the shuttles and into the hotel, voluntarily. Where has this guy been hiding? Maybe sons need special trips too for a true transformation? He looked after them in the line to board the plane, making sure nobody went before them on Southwest. He eyed their tickets and slithered in front of them as MOM loudly explained, “It’s only three people in front of us. Ha, ha, ha. Kids.” She can’t really look at the people she just passed, even if it’s legal. It felt petty.
He demanded fairness in the tennis stadium too. The two took the seats available, not assigned. One seat doesn’t matter MOM thought. A man decided it was more important his cooler get a good seat to watch tennis, his “cold one” (Coke knock-off) within an easy reach. The son was having a hard time seeing around a baseball-cap clad guy in front, he wanted HIS seat, the one that matched the Number 19 on his ticket. It’s the sport within the sport, closer viewing than anyone else.
MOM asked politely if the cooler could be placed behind the man so her son could see better, take his rightfully owned seat. The guy looked as if he was asked to remove his left arm. “You don’t want to wait to see if somebody comes?” MOM’s eyes grew large in shock, glaring into the man’s eyes like a mom reprimanding a child with just a look. “Are you kidding me?” the eyes conveyed. He surrendered. MOM swore he would be the villain in the next blog post.
MOM missed Big Dad when she realized she forgot the camera, his vacation role. Luckily, MOM’s smartphone is pretty smart; it takes pictures. She also missed his navigation prowess. Any requests to triple check directions from mini-dad were met with blank stares at the road or exasperated shouts of “I am not a GPS MOM!” He missed his cue to consult the map app not be one. Big Brother was missed most at the hotel swimming pool, nobody to dunk or splash. MOM just isn’t the same.
MOM going MAD is not always a bad thing. It forces a new way of thinking and operating as a family. The vacation was a transformation for both. A gentleman of a son emerged out of nowhere. A sane MOM returned home, ready to face the mundane drain with a renewed spirit. Plans are in the works to take the older son away, a cooking school in Napa, a show of equality for her other son. She can hardly wait. Besides wishing she had implemented one-on-one trips earlier, this MOM’s only regret: Having a family of two instead of seven kids, like herMOM.
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