ABOUT ME

About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Some might call it making a run for it


I didn't mean to do it.

My mother was at our house babysitting. Chuck was away on business. I came home from work, and the heat and noise of the house hit me like a brick. I was cooked after a week of working, taking care of the kids and trying to scrape together a few minutes to [insert simple task that now seems monumental].

I crawled upstairs and put on my pajamas. It was 5:30 pm. I slithered downstairs and poured myself some wine. My mother helped me bathe the kids, dress them in their pajamas and read them stories. Somewhere in there I poured myself more wine.

At 8 pm I went back downstairs and surveyed the kitchen: dinner dishes, unwashed bottles, recycling, and on the table, a stack of thank-you notes for birthday presents for Everett that I'd been meaning to drop into the neighbors' mailboxes.

My mother sat at the kitchen table and started to write in her diary.

I decided to take a walk.

I grabbed the thank-you notes, put on my coat, gloves, hat and sneakers and stepped outside.

The night air was glorious. Cold, crisp, silent. I walked up the street, finally taking in all the neighborhood Christmas lights I'd been wanting to see for the last month. I peeked into people's houses. Noticed their curtains. The glare of their televisions.

Along the way I delivered my thank-you notes.

I had planned on turning back when I was done, but the mere thought of it lit a fire under my ass something fierce.

I started to run. Not well, mind you. I was pretty tipsy and in my pajamas but my feet wouldn't take me home. Instead they took me uphill and downhill, past the post office and the playground. Past the house where my fifth grade boyfriend used to live. Past everything. There was no one around. My heart was pounding in my ears. I probably looked like a crazy bear with vertigo but dammit, I was running.

And free.

It's good to be free.

But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. After months of sitting behind a desk, my unwilling legs turned rubbery and demanded I cut the shit.

I stopped and caught my breath. I remembered all those horrible years in gym class when you are forced to run a mile while the boys watched and how sometimes, you had to bend over and spit and wheeze just to get your breath back.

I felt like that same girl. Except for the wine and pajamas and two kids at home in bed.

I turned around and headed home.

7 comments:

Pricilla said...

What you need is a bit of a getaway methinks. You can come out here. I will share my goat pen with you. I will even share my apples with you. I will not however share Luke with you....

LazyBones said...

I've been thinking about running. Mostly b/c I read blogs where people run, and they make it sound awesome instead of insane. Post-wine is about the only time I'd probably try it though!

Mama Badger said...

Sometimes it just happens like that. You need that few minutes of "free as a bird" to get it all back in line. Bet you went home and were able to do those dishes, huh? If the boys fall asleep in the car on the way home from day care, I will get onto the highway and just drive for an hour or so, in any direction. No purpose, no where I need to be, just out there, past the "limit".

Hockey Wife said...

I'm dying right now! "... my unwilling legs turned rubbery and demanded I cut the shit." So funny! I totally hear that!

Leanne said...

I run away all the time, but usually I try and throw on some running like clothes. And I always come back too. It's just knowing you can that keeps a Mom sane.

Mamarazzi said...

i really kind of love this. i felt like i was running with you.

i have no idea how i got here, but i am glad i stumbled upon your blog. i love the way you write and the heartbeat behind your words.

Mrs. Tuna said...

Maybe a drunken girls weekend would help a bit.....