Dear Me and You, Vacation but First…

Dear Me and You, 

I’m sitting on a plane and the last time I was on a plane I was headed out, sans husband and kids, to meet up with my friend, which was also a three night trip. Today, on this plane named, “All Because of Blue”, I’m sitting next to my husband— no kids. My children, all three of them, are at home and will be taken care of by our team of grandparents, who are splitting the four day, three night vacation of ours— because a trip without kids is truly a vacation. 

However, getting to this point, ten thousand feet above ground, was anything but effortless. In fact, this week was… all the things. 

Let’s start with our moods being a bit doom and gloom from an ugly-weathered weekend. Monday was a holiday, so everyone was home and we took advantage. I took the older two kids to see The Little Mermaid. And that ended in a bit of an emotional episode for my middle kid; like she was draped on the theater steps demanding to see another movie. She didn’t fully recover until we were home. 

Later that day I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. I did the normal human thing and let it go to voicemail. And then, I did the next normal thing, read the text voicemail (love that feature) and the words “bail bondsman” jumped out at me— and I knew. My dad had been arrested again. The emotion hit me and I had the equivalent of throwing myself on the theater stairs moment; I left the chaos of dinner prep hoping to hide but the kids didn't miss my feelings. I cried. I sobbed. They followed me, asking questions and I wasn’t sure what I was going to say— my husband and I hadn’t had a chance to come up with a game plan but I knew it would be some if not all of the truth. 

I called my mom. She had some information in addition to the information from my bookmarked “Who’s In Jail” site. We shared our feelings, I cried more, the kids kept coming in, asking me what’s wrong, giving me kisses, and looking concerned. 

It was a lot. And so it goes in parenthood: processing rough news and feeling your feelings is challenging and often has to be pushed aside until another moment.

Brendan and I stole 60 seconds to discuss what we would tell the kids. During dinner we told them, “I was crying because I got some information about my dad, your Papa G. He was arrested and his jail.” Of course, as a seven, five, and three year old will do they asked a lot of questions. Thoughtful questions. Kid-Ike questions. Deep hitting questions like, “Did Papa G make bad choices to you? Was he in jail when you were kid?” And after several minutes I set a boundary that I needed to be done talking about it in this moment and gave them the opportunity for their final questions until tomorrow. They asked more. And then, Sloan said, “I’m sorry mama your dad is in jail.” Daphne got up, walked over and smooched my arm. And Tessa watched me with her empathetic eyes. 

Tuesday morning was back to business as usual, except the preschool was closed again— recognizing the holiday. But down to just one kid, we were a machine and did seven errands, which meant we got in and out of the car 14 times; I know this because the kid asked me and she seemed to be impressed with our productivity, and also, exhausted, expressing this via intermittent screams. We had hap kido for one kid and a rehearsal for another. 

Wednesday morning, preschool still closed— teacher prep day. Except now I had an additional kid. So it was a tablet morning while I wrapped up registering kids for school, filling out medical consent forms, making lunches, laundry, tidying up the house, etc. And you know, doing all those things with kids presents… some challenges. We persevered.  Our night ended with Sloan’s end of year performance, which started at 7:15 and ended at 9:45; detailing what that looked like with a three year old isn’t necessary I’m sure. I will say my husband left half way through to put her down and thankfully our neighbor sat in our house so my husband could come back to the theater to see Sloan perform— and let me tell you, that girl is a force on the stage. 

Our alarm went off at 5:45 this morning. I wrote the girls a letter, an attempt to let them know I love them, remind them of their amazingness, a grounding technique we will use when we are missing each other, and that I will be back soon. 

Here’s the fuckery of leaving your kids: I need a break. I want a break. And yet, leaving them hurts. I’m so excited to be with Bren, just Bren. And yet, it feels that a part of me is missing and my stomach grumbles. 

I worry something will happen. I worry that I will never hug them again. And just like that, all the shit-show moments are absolutely nothing. And I sit here on the plane, telling myself I will remember this feeling the next time my kid(s) lose their ever loving mind, or when I’m overwhelmed, or when I’m not sure who I am, or when I wonder if it will ever get easier…

And yet, I know I won’t because parenting is fucking hard. Having a homeless addict for a parent is hard. Doing the work to recover and grow and love is hard. 

It’s all hard. It’s hard for me. It’s hard for you. So, let’s love on each other hard. And support each other hard. Cheer for each other hard. 

We made it through another day, me and you. 

Kudos.