Brave

I did something very brave last weekend. I left for a vacation.

Michael has been suggesting that I join him on a work trip for quite some time now, but in considering this, I always got stuck. Yes, a vacation is long overdue, and even a long weekend just might recharge my corroding batteries. I know it's good for me, it's good for our marriage, and it's good for our kid. Blah blah blah. But here's the thing. It's just so much effort. Even if Oliver doesn't go with us, I'm still packing stuff for him, and organizing everything from getting photocopies of his insurance card, getting refills on his medicines, and matching outifts with bibs and socks. Not to mention that a Thursday night flight would actually mean leaving the house on Thursday afternoon, which means packing all of my stuff on Wednesday and deep-breathing through the next work day with positive thoughts that just maybe I'll get my work done in visits and charting in time to be able to catch the flight on time but not before packing a snack or a dinner after flying through the house to throw the last-minute things into my bag and unpack the car of work supplies so that I can put the stroller inside the trunk before showing my Mom how to work the new carseat and remembering to give her my keys.

I was a wreck. An organized wreck, but a wreck; at 5:35 pm on Thursday, it looked like we were going to make it. And then I had to say goodbye to Oliver. He continued playing and cheerfully ignored my tears and mini-sobs as I kissed him as much as I could before running the other direction. We got in the car and I fell to pieces. I'd like to mention here as I write that I have totally exhausted all euphanisms for crying, sobbing, and losing it in the year-and-a-half I have been writing this blog. Parenting make a mess out of you. What it means for me is that, for the umpteenth time, I sat in rivers of running mascara, cyring like a 10-month-old as we pulled out of the driveway. What it means for you is that you're simply going to have to give up on the hope of reading any creative spins on my break-downs. You can also give up hope right now that I'll stop crying any day now, so just get comfortable with the overplayed scenario.

This was one of my more intense tearful moments, and Michael tried to comfort me, turning my attention to the song that was playing. "Just listen to the words, honey," he said. Sung by Nicole Nordeman, I remembered that she had written it when her son was born. The song is called Brave. My sobs turned to sniffles. I am brave for doing this, I thought. Good for me.

Michael travels a decent amount for his job, and has been savvy to always stay at a Marriott, always fly Delta, and always use Hertz rental for his car. He has built up enough loyalty to these three institutions to be considered platinum or gold or some other color of royalty. Which means that I get to be Queen when I travel with him. We had first-class seats awaiting us on our private jet. Okay, no private jet- I just didn't want you to hate me for the first-class thing. Now it doesn't sound so terrible, does it?

First class is exactly how you'd envision it to be. You get to drink whatever you want, whenever you want it. Remember getting food on the plane? Yeah, that happens too, with real silverware, and an overflowing snack basket of calories that gets passed under your nose at least twice. You get this hot towel thing handed to you to freshen up. Your earphones are free. Oh yeah, and things like wine? Free. I mean, included. When I start to feel horrendously guilty about sitting in my cushy-wide seat, I remember that I am so not there because I deserve this treatment. These upgrades are paid for, in miles or frequent flights or good 'ol money. And let me tell you, I'm not sure that I could have been more aware or more appreciative of the luxury. I had a glass of red wine before taking off, because I could, and I felt like I had been hugged with a nice warm weighted blanket. The Merlot said, "here, you've had such a long day, and such a long 10 months. I'm here for you. Why don't you just sit back and relax." I think the flight attendants are actually required to be extra-nice to you in first class. Even the signage is different. In the bathroom, I read the sign that said, "As a courtesy to the next customer, may we suggest wiping out the sink after use? Thank you." I could have sworn that the sign in the coach bathrooms reads something like, "Clean up your mess, jerk."

After we landed, the pampering continued, as we picked up our car rental: a Mustang convertible with 4 miles on it. We added 300-some more miles at the end of our three days in LA, and took back sunburnt arms and noses as souveniers. I know, you have no sympathy for me. I don't either. We met up with our dear friends Zach and Kia, who moved out to LA last fall, and spent our days touring Mulholland Drive, Rodeo Drive, Bel Aire, Hollywood, and Mom-and-Pop eateries. We went swimming, strolled the boardwalks of Venice Beach and Santa Monica Pier, and drove past famous dives of LA nightlife. We got massages, drank champagne, and ate chocolate-covered-strawberries. We stayed in one of those suites that actually have his-and-hers bathrobes. It was the stuff of dreams. By the end of the weekend, we were plenty acclimated to the high life. On Sunday, somebody pulled their car up next to us and asked for directions. I laughed. "You sure asked the wrong person," I said. "We're from Minnesota!" As we whizzed off in our convertible, I began thinking that maybe we weren't so out of place...I am, after all, a natural blonde.

This trip sure doesn't sound like it required a lot of courage after all, does it? Truly, we are blessed to have had this vacation, and Michael's travels helped made the extraordinary touches of luxury possible. "It almost makes all of those nights without me around worth it, doesn't it?" he said. Almost, I told him.

It was hard to be away from Oliver, of course, though it wasn't as bad as I feared it would be. I had no worries about him whatsoever. In fact, I was pretty sure that he was having way too much fun with his Grandparents to even remember that his parents were gone. (As it turns out, I was right). But the first night that we arrived, looking out at the valleys and palm trees from our balcony, I had a terrible realization that I was very, very far away from my baby. What was I thinking, leaving across the country away from my own son? I had my moments like this every night, trying not to think about my fear that I would miss him more intensely each day. I countered these thoughts with what I know: to take care of someone else, you must first take care of yourself.

We arrived home late on Sunday night to find Oliver falling asleep on my Dad's chest. Ollie heard our voices, looked up, and grinned incessantly behind his nuk. Our sleepy boy reached out to hug both of us at the same time, and jumped up and down on our laps. He may not have missed us, but he sure didn't forget us. I held my boy close. This, this, is the high life.