“Who said you were entitled to a vacation?”

I had at least twelve lengthy conversations with my mom before leaving my teaching career to return to the business world. I lived in Colorado at the time. Husband and I wanted to come home to Tampa, but knew that would require her assistance.

“You’re about to retire,” I said. “Are you sure you want to help care for two little boys?”

It didn’t take long for her to convince me that she’d consider it more of a treat than a chore. But I wanted her to be sure, because decisions that impact other people should involve their input. Many people see the happiness in her eyes when she details the ways in which she knows our boys so well. But let’s face it. Having my mom nearby has saved *my* ass more than a few times. I enjoy working outside the home and couldn’t possibly do it without her help. (Obviously Husband saves my life, but that’s another post for another time.) When he’s bringing home the bacon and I’m out stirring up trouble, Mom is indispensable.

This is why I put up with dead love bugs in my hair and confederate flags all over town.

Shit has a way of falling apart when she leaves.

Recently, for instance, she took off like a big ass bird for Ireland.

Here are my emails to her during what became the ten longest days of my life.

Day One

Dear Mom:
Everything is fine. I hope you arrived in Ireland safely and are enjoying some well-deserved time off. Last night, did you hear me suggest that I yoga myself into the shape and size of a dollar bill, so you could tuck me into your luggage? You didn’t seem to hear me. I was serious.
Love, Catherine

Day Three

Dear Mom:
Are you having a pint for me? I hope so. Galway is beautiful this time of year. Tampa, however, is not. Oldest is complaining about headaches and Youngest is telling me the hardwood floors are killing his feet. Both of them believe a few days of lying in bed, eating ice cream, will make them feel better. There are four days left of school. I don’t think I’ll survive. Have two pints for me.
Whatever, Catherine

Day Five

Mom,
Okay, took Oldest to the doctor. Apparently his headaches aren’t due to allergies because he isn’t congested. Was told to visit primary care physician. PCP checked vision and asked questions, before saying that Oldest couldn’t be suffering from migraines because he has no sensitivity to light and isn’t nauseated. As soon as we got home, Oldest threw up, started blowing his nose and requested a new pair of sunglasses.
Youngest needs special sneakers. The doctor said we must move to a house with at least one room of carpet or we can kiss a sports scholarship goodbye. Was depressed until I realized your house has carpet.
Yeah, I said it.
Enjoy those fucking pints.
Catherine

Day Six

It’s not even the end of May and I’m already regretting resolution to learn how to cook this summer. Youngest tries to be supportive. He reminds me to add butter and salt. Oldest complains that he really has to chew the fish and claims to have lost all feeling in his lower jaw. Husband takes one bite of his chicken and asks for ketchup. I just sit and cry about how I used to like cilantro.

Day Eight

School is out for the summer and I’ve had no success trying to strong-arm mood-stabilizer samples from my doctor. After making five appointments with several different neurologists, Oldest woke up this morning and declared his headaches gone. “Perhaps I was allergic to school,” he suggested. I find myself on outings, smiling, nodding, and laughing. But inside I’m all, “I hate people.” How much longer until school starts? Don’t tell me.

Day Nine

It’s been almost two weeks of nonstop mommying, without even five minutes to take a piss in peace. Husband is good for swimming and daily basketball games where someone usually ends up bleeding. I have to explain way too many times that I have no background in the art of umpiring and can someone please knock before they enter the bathroom? Will I ever finish this goddamn Newsweek?

Day Ten (taped to the front door)

Hi Mom,
Kids are watching ninth hour of television and Husband is asleep on the couch. I ran errands, took a wrong turn, and kept going. Stay as long as you like. Don’t worry about a forwarding address, you can keep my mail. They’re all bills anyway.
There’s leftover fish in the fridge. Help yourself.
Oh, and welcome home.