My stomach kind of felt weird for a minute. I mean, the word "confession" doesn't usually come attached to something positive. Not to mention that whatever it was seemed to be important enough to call me in Jamaica ... at the rate of two dollars per minute (OMGWTFBBQ!).
I was hoping it was a good kind of confession. Something like, "I spent too much on a fabulous diamond ring for our anniversary," or, "I haven't actually been doing the housework myself ... I hired a maid."
" ... What is it, honey?" I asked in what I hoped was a supportive tone.
There was a slight pause. (Two dollars PER MINUTE!!) Then, finally: "I couldn't handle it. I took the kids out of school and we're driving down to my mom's so I can have some help."
I have to admit, I was relieved. Because for a hot second, it had seemed like he was out-mom'ing me. When I'd talked to him the first couple of times, he was all, "I got the kids ready for school and we were sitting in the parking lot waiting for the doors to open," and, "We cleaned out the van - it's spotless," and, "I took the boys and the dogs to the park." And I was like, "WTF?" because those are things I typically only dream of doing as I drag everyone to school in my pajamas and drive right past the park with the kids looking longingly out the window.
"They cooperated so well the first few days," he said. "But once the novelty wore off, all hell broke loose. They're bickering and messing stuff up and I just need some help."
For the first time, like, ever I was kind of glad my kids were doing all that. Welcome to my life, I thought. But I didn't say that because I didn't want to be an asshole. So I just told him that he'd made a wise decision and to be careful on the four-hour drive to his mom's and hung up because OMG, two dollars a minute!
The feeling of vindication was pretty much worth it.
We stayed at the Grand Palladium and it was AMAZING and GORGEOUS, and if you want to see pictures of it you can click on the link and see the ones on their website. Because I guarantee that at least a few of you are still in pajamas with stuff crusted all over them and you're way behind on like everything you're supposed to be doing today and you'd give your right boob for a vacation to Jamaica but for the moment you've got to deal with a toddler with an attitude problem - trust me, I've been there - and seeing someone's vacation pictures might just push you over the edge. Not to mention that sometimes it's kinda boring.
So I'll just give you a little photo synopsis, with no beautiful psychotic-jealousy-inducing pics included:
... Which typically leads to, you know, this:
For the record, I almost never drink and in fact have not even been tipsy in nearly three years.
... Until last week. What? I've been saving up.
And because it was Jamaica, I snapped this photo of a Rasta for your viewing pleasure:
I kind of wish I was that skinny.
Since my friend Denni lives in Missouri (and not awesome Iowa like me), that's where we flew into. And at like two o'clock in the morning, after a sixteen-hour travel day, I dragged my tired behind and my bulging suitcase into my mom's house, where Curtis and the kids had stayed the night before. And within an hour, Curtis had to catch his flight for a business trip to Virginia, officially returning me to not only my Mommy duties, but to single-Mommy status for a few days.
So the next day, with two and a half hours of sleep under my belt, four kids, two dogs, about a gazillion suitcases (into which Curtis had literally dumped the contents of the boys' drawers), and a piss-poor attitude, I set out on the four-hour drive back home. It rained. The baby cried. The boys whined. And somehow, between Missouri and Iowa, the nagging cough and runny nose I'd been brushing off for the past day developed into a full-blown cold and a 102-degree fever. I blame the climate change, or maybe the travel - but whatever it was, it sucked.
And when I got home, the house - which Curtis had proclaimed over the phone to be "not that messy" - looked kind of like a roving band of monkeys had ransacked it. I mean, check out these pictures of the top of the freezer and the kitchen table:
I sincerely hope that was chocolate.
At least the laundry piled in the basket was clean. And the dishes filling the dishwasher were clean. And the sheets in the washer were ... mildewing because he had forgotten to put them in the dryer.
But whatever. Curtis tried, and he did a great job (he even blogged!), and I'm so thankful for him. It is so not easy being a mom.
Especially when you're a dad.