I was solo with the kids all day Sunday, which turned out to be Sibling Rivalry Day. I applied I don’t know how many ice packs and band-aids to increasingly serious injuries. My voice was literally hoarse from yelling. By evening, I was way beyond “Calgon, take me away…” It was more like “Get me the hell out of here!”
All the wonderful, warm, fuzzy things Hubby had to say about our offspring in that last post went out the window. As soon as I got the chance, I was out the door.
I’m not kidding. It was dark out and past the kids’ bedtime, but when the dishes were done, I said, “Bye, I need some fresh air,” stuck my headphones in my ears, and took off running.
There’s something about running in the dark. You get the sensation you’re moving so much faster. It feels almost forbidden, flying through quiet neighborhoods, past windows you try not to peek into. Not that there’s anything crazy going on, usually people sitting down to a late dinner or watching the evening news. But it feels like you shouldn’t be out there, like you’re a vagrant or a voyeur, or at the very least someone skipping out on their Sunday evening duties like prepping school lunches and finishing up the week’s laundry.
But when it’s a sixty degree early spring evening, and you reach the top of the hill with the city skyline view, and you stop to stretch and breathe, it feels like this is what you needed to do, this is perfect.
It was for me anyways, put the terrible, awful, no-good day right into perspective. The run home put the action plan into place. By the time I re-entered our living room, picking a path past all the Legos and murmuring reassuring responses to the kids’ Mommy where did you go?? I had mapped out all the steps we would take towards better behavior. All of us.
Running away brought me right back home.