Valentine's Day nostalgia

My babies are giants. When they hug me, I am still surprised by the scratchy stubble, broad backs, and nearly-grown-men muscles. But they are still my babies. (Don't worry. They know this. They are okay with it. In fact, I think they kinda like it.) Back during the preschool days, we used to spend the week before Valentine's painstakingly addressing cards for classmates. Then during the elementary years, we would have family dinner celebrations, complete with heart-shaped paper plates, crystal goblets (which they looooooved using), and pink frosted cupcakes. A couple of years ago, it was an afternoon poolside picnic. This year, one of the boys has beach plans with his buddies, and the other one is planning a picnic with the new girlfriend (yikes!).   My babies are certainly no longer babies, but before I left for work this morning, I left pink and red gift baggies filled with giant chocolate candy, mushy cards, and cash (they ARE teenagers, after all...), and covered each of their bedroom doors with 14 construction paper hearts of handwritten compliments. Because no matter how stubbly or muscly or grown they get, they will always be my babies--and my Valentines. 

This following was originally posted here on February 14, 2020, on the first Valentine's when they were both in middle school.

I miss those little Valentine's Day cards

My knees barely fit under the table. It was my boys' coveted Little Einstein's arts-and-crafts-and-everything-they-wanted-to-do-table. There were accidental scribbles on it, and pieces of dried up play-dough. The cubbies underneath had mommy-assigned and boys-ignored designations: one was for the crayons, another for construction paper, and another for puzzles. (Needless to say, those cubbies were always a mess and it always drove me crazy.) I spent countless hours at that table. First with Ben, then with Kai, and sometimes with both. We drew. We colored. We made pizzas out of clay. When Ben had to decorate a t-shirt with 100 things of his choice to celebrate the 100th day of school and he absolutely insisted on making 100 paw prints (his school's symbol) in the alternating school colors in glitter, I sat at that table with him: I dribbled the 5 little globs of Elmer's glue with painstaking precision and he sprinkled the blue and gold glitter over each one. It took us days. But it came out perfect.

Today, the first Valentine's Day in which I have two middle school boys, is also the first Valentine's Day that I did not have to buy cards and candy for class distribution. Maybe if I had realized that last year would be the last year, I would not have complained so much about spending money on candy and cards for his classmates. (But isn't that the thing with parenting? You never know when those tedious tasks you rush through and sometimes dread...bedtime stories, bathtub battles, carrying them asleep to their rooms...will be done for the last time.)

I feel like it was simultaneously yesterday and a million years ago that I sat at that little table, for a few consecutive years, helping them form the letters of their classmates' names and making them fit on those teeny Valentine's Day cards. There were the years in which one or both would insist on finding just the right cards: they had to be Mickey, or Transformers, or sports, and we would have to go to multiple stores to find them. Doing those cards with them was one of those tasks that took forever, and I wondered over and over again why I wasn't doing what so many of the other moms would do: simply label the To/From myself. But it was one of those things that mattered to me. As a teacher and a mom, I felt that these were those important moments when your 2 year old kinda learns how to write and your 5 year old kinda learns some patience. It was tedious and tried my patience probably even more than it tried theirs. I don't really recall with absolute certainty the last time I did it with them. I think I was on the couch instead, and they were kneeling at the coffee table. It was more of a making sure they were following through and their handwriting was neat enough to fit within the card than actually doing it with them. I was probably a little impatient then, too.

This morning I excitedly placed their Valentine's Day gift bags and cards on the breakfast counter. Bags filled with nonsense that took me almost an hour to find at Target yesterday. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to find something cheap and Valentine-y to give a 14 year old who is now shaving?!?) As I roamed the store aisles, I debated skipping the whole thing. Why spend $40 or $50 on cards and junk and candy they really don't need? But the truth is, they're still my babies and I actually miss sitting at that little table and being annoyed and wondering how much longer it would take to go through that darned preschool class names list so I could go deal with dinner or watch TV or take a frickin shower. Those days felt endless. I felt like I was trapped in a perpetual fog of little kid responsibilities and mommy minutiae. And yet here we are now: I am spending my Valentine's Day remembering that little table and those little hands with the dimpled knuckles clutching the fat pencils and clumsily forming the letters of their names.

What I realize now, all these years later, is that all those hours I spent torturing myself by making all those Valentine's Day cards with them weren't just about their handwriting and spelling skills. It was about Me and Them Time. Days like today, when their time is spent in a whirlwind of adolescent distractions, and I am but a blip in their day, I can think back to the days at that table and sit with those memories. I can miss them. I can relish them. And I can know that even if they don't think that those days were particularly important, they were for me. Much more so, in fact, now that they are long gone. Don't get me wrong: I want no part of parenting little kids anymore. I love the young men they are becoming and the relationship and life we all have now, but those days filled with messy art tables and Transformer heart cards are forever etched in my heart. And those two big kids right there...they will forever be my little Valentines.

A blurry picture I managed to find of THE Table

2019...check out the fancy drinkware

2020...and I thought they were so big then!

My forever Valentines

My babies are in high school...together

Today my babies went to high school together. The same babies for whom I started this blog. The same babies I thought would never grow up and let me sleep in late on a weekend or take a shower in peace. I started this blog to survive the early years of motherhood...a time I found awe-inspiring, disorienting, overwhelming, and exhausting. Now, here I am: standing in my driveway, waving, taking pictures, watching them walk together to Ben's car, put their backpacks in the trunk almost in unison, get in the car, and drive off. 

For the last 12 years, we always had one or both of our boys with us at our school where we teach. We drove the 40-minute commute in different combinations: somedays all four of us; other days split into pairs (those mornings when we knew the boys sitting in the back seat together for that long was going to be a really bad idea); and yet other days split into a ratio of 1 to 3 ("You take them today because I have them in the afternoon and I really need some quiet time this morning.").

For the last 12 years, they were always around...hanging out in our classrooms in the mornings or afternoons, being excused from class to see us because they needed something for a headache, or a form they'd forgotten to get signed, a snack, or just because they were running an errand for their teacher and stopped by on the way to say "hi." And my husband's and my favorite moments: those spontaneous, unexpected sightings in the hallways which would usually result in a high five, a passing joke, or (especially these last couple of years with our "gentle giant") a body-jarring hug.

Today, Aidan Kai (aka The Baby) started high school.

We overhead them talking about it last night:

"Don't worry, Kai. We'll get there early and I'll walk you around to all of your classes so you'll know where to go. And maybe I can even meet you in between some of the classes." 

"Ok, thanks, Ben. And oh, can we use our phones in class, or is it like elementary and middle school?"

"No," Ben held back a chuckle. "You can use your phone."

"Then can I text you during the day?"

"Yeah. Sure." 

We were ready, as parents, for this new chapter. We were ready to be, for the first time, just Mom and Dad, and not Mr. and Mrs. A...to be able to let go after having them with us from kindergarten to 8th grade...to know they will be in situations--academically and socially--that we not only will know very little about, but will also not be able to step in and intercede. We have no "pull" now.

Knowing Aidan Kai, who has always been a little shyer, a little less daring socially, will have his big brother there to guide him gives us peace of mind. And to know Ben actually wants Kai there...that gives us a satisfaction we cannot express. We spent their whole lives trying to get them to bond, to rely on each other, to be kinder to each other than to anyone. Years spent camping and traveling and playing and talking...we think they are paying off now. 

Towards the end of last school year, Ben told me: "You know, I'm excited about Kai coming to school with me next year. I think it's going to be fun to have him there, to be at the same school again."

Our boys...

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Today when I got home from work, before I wrote this post, I went back to my first-ever blog post about the boys. It made my heart ache a little for those babies, but it also made my heart swell with pride and joy and excitement watching who they are growing up to be as individuals, but also, as brothers. 

*Here's my original post from March 8, 2009.

Introducing: The Boys

Here they are...the source of much of my joy and frustrations: The Boys.

Ben's 3 1/2. He's a rock star, for sure. And not only in his parents' very biased minds. Everyone who knows him thinks he's a rock star. So does he. Fortunately, on most days, we totally lucked out with this one. He really is everything you'd want your kid to be: funny, smart, athletic, and (almost always) sweet. But we are well aware that we need to keep a tight leash on this one. He's scary bright. He also inherited some of his parents' "best" qualities: stubborn and opinionated. His favorite sayings? "Watch me," "Try to catch me!" and "I know that."

Then along came Aidan Kai. The name "Aidan" means "fire." The name "Kai" means "ocean" in Hawaiian. So there you go...a walking contradiction. He's only been around for 7 months, but he's already given us our share of contradictory feelings as well: "Isn't he the cutest thing EVER?" and "Why the heck did we want another one, again?" He spent the first 4 1/2 months of his life wailing, shrieking, crying, and making everyone around him state the obvious: "But Ben was never like this!" And although he now spends most of his time flashing his dimples, he's still known as our "High Maintenance Boy." I feel strangely protective of Aidan Kai. Perhaps it's all the sibling comparisons from everyone, perhaps it's the dimples, perhaps it's the High Maintenance label that has been permanently affixed to him, but I can just relate to him. I can't wait to see what kind of kid he's gonna be.

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I fell in love with Hawaii a very long time ago...

In honor of our departure tomorrow for our second trip to Hawaii with the boys...

...a throwback post explaining how my love for these islands began and how I felt right before we took our boys for the first time.        (originally posted here on June 14, 2016)

It's "just" a trip.

Old Lahaina Luau 2004

I fell in love with Hawaii instantly. The first time I went was in 1996, and I felt like I was home, even though I knew that didn't make any sort of logical sense. I attributed this feeling with being young and not having had much travel experience. I figured it was normal that I fell in love with such a beautiful place if I hadn't been to too many other places. I wasn't sure when or how, but I knew I'd be back. Fast forward 8 years. I had been divorced, remarried, and had a few other really beautiful places under my travel belt. I surprised my husband for his 30th birthday with two tickets to Maui. I worried he would not love it as much as I had, and I worried even more that I would not love it as much as I thought I had. Like so many other things we fret about in life, both of those concerns were pointless: I loved it even more than I had the first time, and he had the same exact reaction to the sights, culture, and feel of the island.

Watching sunrise at 10,000 feet at Haleakala Crater 2004

At this point in our relationship, we had been struggling to start a family for a while, and while on our trip we both agreed that we would give it one more year. If after one more year of trying, we could not get pregnant, we would take it as a sign that it was not meant to be and we would pack up and move to Hawaii.  We returned from the trip feeling homesick for a place we weren't even really from, and started investigating cost of living and swapping our Florida teaching certificates for ones from the State of Hawaii. We discovered we were pregnant 8 months later. Raising a child away from our families and the grandparents (Hello...free babysitting!) was not an option. We shelved the "We Are Gonna Move To Hawaii Life Plan" for a bit. When Ben was 18 months old, we left him in the very capable hands of his grandparents and returned to Hawaii--this time to the island of Oahu--for a glorious getaway for our 5 year anniversary. Little did I know that my husband had been planning a surprise renewal of vows ceremony, complete with a minister and professional photographer.

Renewal of vows ceremony at Halona Cove Beach 2007

That night was the beginning of yet another magical few days spent in Hawaii. At the conclusion of that trip, sitting on the most amazing white sands of Lanikai Beach in Kailua, we decided two things: we wanted to have another baby (even though we had sworn we would only have one child) and once they were both old enough to appreciate it, we would return for a summer in Hawaii with our kids.

That was almost 10 years ago.

Tomorrow we leave on that trip.

We've been talking about it for years, and actively planning it for three.

It's only a trip, I keep telling myself. It's only a trip.

But really, who am I kidding?

This is not just a trip.

This is a dream.

And we made it happen.

We rented a little house on the sand on the North Shore of Oahu. We will be there for half the summer--a whole month. We are flying for 3 days in the middle of the month to Maui. We will take our boys back to all those places we loved and hope they love it as much as we have. There have been many sacrifices made for this trip...big decisions and little ones. And for a long time I wondered if this would ever happen. It's hard for me to explain how important this trip is. Making this a reality is proof to myself that I can choose the kind of life I want to live: that I can prioritize what is really, truly important and make it happen. Although I understand that this is not really an accomplishment, I still feel a sense of pride that we did it: we made it happen. We're really doing this.

I have wondered what my reaction to the islands will be this time around. Can they possibly meet my expectations yet again? Will I get that same feeling...like I'm home? Will I again feel homesick when it's time to return to my real home? Or will I realize that, after all the traveling and cool places I've been to in the last decade, Hawaii is just one more wonderful, amazing place? Will I feel like: okay, I'm good now. No more longing for a Hawaiian relocation...?

I wonder. I don't know. But I do know one thing for sure: after this month, I will be able to say I spent a summer with my kids in a little house on the North Shore of Hawaii.

No big deal. It's "just" a trip.

Aloha...

Mai Tai-ing It in Waikiki 2007

A not-so-private love letter

I wrote this in 2010 and it was originally posted here, as part of a love letter blogging challenge. Eleven years ago, and this--all of this--still rings true.

Happy 19 years to the man who will forever remain my buzz long after last call.

Dear P, 

When Momalom put out a challenge to write a love letter, you immediately came to mind. I hesitated, though, because really...what would people think...that I am choosing to profess my love to my husband? And on the Internet?? Seriously, how corny and codependent is that? I thought of so many other clever "loves": my stilettos, my cocktails, my pillow. Even writing a love letter to my children, although very predictable, would have been more acceptable, I suspect.

But I chose you. I think I owed it to you and to Us to be honest. To put it out there. You have never been afraid to shout it from the rooftops. And as loud as I usually am, I think you deserve a little more noise from my side.

Plus, our love affair started on paper...post-its stapled shut, letters on notebook paper...the lines impossibly and frantically filled with confessions, promises, and fears.

So let me just say it...the cliche...the thing so often found inside greeting cards this time of year: I don't know how I got so lucky.

I don't.

I look around and find it impossibly delicious that you are mine.

There was something about you, from the beginning, that made me stop breathing. Literally. I would stop breathing when you walked into a room. What is that? Really. What is that? And although I can say I think you're hot as hell, and although I am sure you'd love to hear that it was your amazingly rugged good looks that did it to me, it wasn't. It was something else entirely. Although, even now, ten years later, I still can not name it.

The absolutely most amazing thing about it is this: when you walk unexpectedly into a room, and I look up and am surprised to see you, in that moment when the realization hits that it is You, I still get a flutter...there is still a very slight, very shallow, very sudden intake of breath. Oh. It's you.

Some of my love is shallow and silly. Sometimes, when we're out on a date night, I scan the room. I look at all the men there and I pretend I don't know you and I am always amazed that you are the only guy I would want to buy me a drink. And probably take me home.

Some of my love is the kind that can only grow from the everyday: raising children, paying mortgages, real life. When the children are sick, you wake up right alongside me (sometimes without me), you take the temperatures, you clean the vomit, you hold them close until they fall asleep. You make them feel safe. When the house needs cleaning, when the dinner needs cooking, when the laundry needs doing, you just do it. You don't point it out. You don't ask for props. You never call it "helping."

But even more than my partner at home, you're my partner in crime. There is no one I have more fun with...no one I'd rather get slammed drunk with....no one makes me laugh as much as you do. How is it that I have married a man who can be at a club with me til 4:00 in the morning, partying like a frat boy, and then be Daddy the next day, so often better than I can be Mommy?

You love like no one I know, yet you don't offer it easily. It's hard to get to you. It's hard to matter in your life. As sensitive and passionate as you are, you reserve that for a very select few. You simply don't have time, you say. And, as you so honestly put it, just don't care. You don't care about being politically correct. You don't care about what others want or expect. You answer to nearly no one. Yet for those of us who have been lucky enough, your loyalty is frighteningly intense. You will go to the ends of the earth for someone you love, but always expect the same in return.

From the beginning, you put me first. That was our deal. Above everything and everyone, we would make Us our priority. And even after the kids came, even after life became more and more difficult to juggle, you've held me to that. You've held Us to that. When I get caught up in Life: the bills, the responsibility, the kids, the general noise inside my head, you call me on it. You want to talk. To drink wine. To listen. To love.

I love you as much for this constant desire to make time for us as for your absolute refusal to put up with my shit. I can be tough. I can be clingy. I can be whiny. I can be bitchy. You call me on that, too.

Yet despite your total and complete commitment to me, you have your own life. You have your passions outside of Us. You need your time away, your time alone, to be your own self, separate from being mine, or ours, or theirs. Your love for the outdoors, for your bikes, for testing your limits, makes me love you even more. You are, without question, your own person, apart from your family. And so you understand why I need to have my own things, too. It is what makes you understand all of me...my blog, my friends, my interests, my latest crazy idea.

That is the best thing about you, I think, if I had to pick one (other than those forearms of yours): you understand me. Really, and truly, you understand me. You've seen my absolute best and, embarrassingly, my absolute worst, and everything in between. You not only accept who I am, but you want me to be more of it: you are the one who constantly reminds me to stop being afraid of myself.

So, no. I don't know how I got so lucky. I don't know what happened or how it happened or why it happened. Sometimes I look around, at you, at our kids, at us, and I still can't believe this has worked. I can't believe we are this happy...this in sync. So, yes. My love letter had to be to you. Because there is nothing and no one I love the way I love you.

Love,

Me

The More the Merrier (as in more friends, but yeah, more writing too)

I've been revisiting a lot of my old writing lately.

Since I recently started taking online writing workshops, I needed to carve out some sort of daily work space for my writing and lessons. Silence has always been big for me. And no clutter. I like a space that feels my own and is silent.

Reality check.

I live in a tiny, noisy, love-filled house that I share with my three favorite humans. (Two of those humans are boys--teenage boys.) They are all amazingly respectful of my writing time: they turn down their TVs (to still-audible-in-the-other-room-levels), always apologize after they interrupt me, and only roughhouse and bond loudly over inappropriate jokes with their dad until they remember I'm sitting there.

I realized the writing had not been happening for way too long, so it was time to stop making excuses and find a way to adjust (anyone who knows me probably chuckled right there..I'm not known for my flexible adaptability). So here's what I did: I completely commandeered the dining room table (which is literally only used for actual dining when it's my turn to host book club and the rest of the time is the holder of all things random and pending). My shiny new red laptop and adorably kitschy turquoise mouse now sit there, along with printed reminders of my writing. My writing notebook. The 9 instructional books I wrote. The anthology in which one of my essays was published. And my blog books which hold 12 years worth of my writing.

Twelve years. Lately, every time I looked here, on this blog, instead of noticing how much I had written over the years, I would focus on the gaps of time between posts. I would focus on how many ideas never got put to paper (or screen). So while taking these courses...recreating and rebuilding my writing practice...I needed some reminders of what I've created through the years. Now, when I sit at my no-one-ever-dines-here-dining-table, I feel like it's my space. It is far from silent and somewhat cluttered, but I'm using the noise in my head to tune out the gaming noises and episodes of "Breaking Bad," and the clutter that sits on this table inspires me to remember what I have done and what I can do. 

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The following essay was published in The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship (edited by Jessica Smock and Stephanie Sprenger of The HerStories Project.) It was originally posted here on September 30, 2010.

The More the Merrier

I've been thinking a lot about friendships lately.

My dearest friend's 7-year-old granddaughter is having some issues on the playground. She can't quite understand how her best friend can be her best friend one day and completely ignore her the next.

"That's just rude, Gram. And it hurts my feelings."

It's tough being a girl. Women are difficult creatures. We desperately need each other but we push each other away, claw and snap and bitch, and talk behind each other's backs.

My friend assured her granddaughter that "one day" she'd find that one true best friend:

"Really, Gram? You promise?"

"I promise."

I told my friend that I thought that had been a terrible promise to make (we're honest like that). I'm not sure I really believe in the notion of a best friend anymore, although lately (and here's the truly ironic part) I feel I am in some of the healthiest relationships of my life. The notion of That One True Best Friend--the promise that little girl is holding out for--puts a whole lot of pressure on her and especially on the girls around her. No one person should be responsible for being every thing to anyone.

That little girl may be so busy looking for that One Girl that she may miss out on all the ones skipping happily around her on the playground.

* * *

In spite of the fact that most people would probably describe me as very outgoing, I've actually spent most of my life being somewhat anti-social. Growing up, I was never accepted into any of the Cliques Of The Moment, and more often than not, I'd find somebody who was "like me" (read: a little too loud or a little too dramatic or a little too awkward or a little too whatever I happened to be at the time) and I'd latch on. I'd found her: my friendship soulmate! And eventually, as is almost always inevitable with females, she'd screw me over. There was Marilyn in 3rd grade, who one day came back from lunch and abruptly and silently pulled her desk a few inches away from mine and refused to speak to me. I remember Lena, in middle school, who decided hanging out with "the other girls" was way cooler than hanging out with me (she was probably right). The list goes on and on. I realize there were probably many times that I, too, had disappointed them...I don't doubt that I said something completely inappropriate to Marilyn that day at lunch, but couldn't she have told me what that something was?

What I've come to realize over the last couple of years is that all that time I spent excluding everyone else to be with my One True Best Friend, I had missed out. A lot. On people, outings, experiences, adventures, life lessons.

I now find myself surrounded by a lot of really remarkable women...some I had pushed aside for years because I simply "didn't have the time" to spend with them. I am more open, less judgmental, and having a whole heck of a lot more fun. My "collection" of girlfriends are all incredibly different: with some I can discuss, in great details, Marc Jacobs's personal make-over...others shop "exclusively" at Walmart and Target. For some of my friends, sweating is restricted to dancing and sex...others are game for anything from a 5k to a full-out adventure race. I would not call any one of these women my Best Friend. I know who I can call in the middle of the night when my kid is running a fever of 105. I know who I can call when I'm desperate for a night of dancing and drinks. Some of these women know secrets about me that the rest of the world would be shocked to know. Others, I'm just starting to truly trust.

Today, I "asked a girl out." Well, that's what it felt like, anyway. I recently started to talk to someone at work who seems to be so amazingly interesting and intelligent and just plain "cool," that I stepped out of my old comfort zone and, after 30 minutes of chatting about designer galoshes, world-wide travel, Christian Louboutins, mamas' boys, marriage and children, I decided to make a plan to get together next week. This may seem like a totally normal thing to do. But for me, it felt foreign. This woman may become one of my girls. Or, perhaps we will get together and have absolutely nothing to talk about (although after that 30-minute-all-inclusive-chat, I doubt it!). But the point is that I have finally figured out that I don't need one Best Friend. I need lots of really fantastic friends. I am no longer disappointed, because I don't put all my eggs in one basket. I have lots of baskets, and I'm skipping happily around with them on the playground.

You can love being with your kids--AND without them

I was at a kid's birthday party once, discussing vacation plans and travel tips with another mom, when I asked her if the trip she was planning was a family one, or just a getaway for her and her husband. She--I kid you not--literally gasped, put a hand to her chest, and said "Oh nooooo, we never travel without the children. I don't have those kinds of urges." While I was busy trying not to respond inappropriately nor giggle at the use of the word urges, she then threw in the following statement, unprompted, just for good measure: "I asked my husband once. He said he does not have those urges either." *

*Fine print: no portion of the aforementioned conversation was exaggerated, tweaked, altered, made up, or misquoted for the sake of comedic effect.

I do have those urges.

I had them when they were teeny-tiny babies and smelled delicious and their presence in my life felt as tender and unexpected as the soft spots on their heads. I had them when they were bigger but still so little and called me "Mama" in their raspy little voices. I have them now when they are pre-teen and full-blown-in-my-face-teen and simultaneously awe and enrage me.

I love my boys. I love snuggling on the couch with them on family movie nights. I love listening to them tell me stories about how they handled a socially charged situation in school. I love climbing into our RV and spending a bunch of days with just the four of us making s'mores, riding bikes, and searching for adventure. I love that they both still expect (and enjoy) their bedtime songs and nightly rituals. I love being Mommy.

But I love being Liz, too. I love paddle boarding by myself at sunrise and discussing books over wine with my book club girls and reading the 704th book from the Outlander series in peace.

And I love being Hubby's Wife, too. I love strolling on the boardwalk in the afternoon hand-in-hand to decompress from our day and talking with him quietly over beers at our favorite local bar and spending an entire day at the beach drinking way too many Jack and Cokes.

I have urges. Lots of 'em.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to go on many getaways with Hubby, sans kids, thanks to amazing grandparents. Most of the trips have been little getaways, designed to help us reconnect and recharge so we could do Us better, but also so we could do Parenting better. These days, we go on way more family trips than Just Us trips, because we know we only have so many years left with the boys before they: a) are no longer able to take time away from their school/sports/schedules, b) grow up and move away, or c) no longer want to travel with us. Plus, now that they are not babies anymore, there are a lot of places we want to show them and lots of things we want to discover. So for now, if we can sneak in a long weekend once or twice a year without the kids, that's enough.

We are getting ready to take the boys on their first cruise in the next couple of months, and planning for that got me thinking about the last time Hubby and I were on a cruise. It was the first time we went away together after Kai was born. We were parenting an almost-4-year-old and a very high-maintenance 6-month-old so let's just say we were urging.  Reading that post made me relive both the desperation we felt to get away and the sweetness of feeling like we were leaving someone behind who would miss us with nearly equal parts desperation. Let's just say Ben's reaction, at age 4, was quite different to what his reaction would be now, at 14, if we were to announce we were going away for a few days. It definitely made me a little melancholic, but I guess the bright side is that as they get older and less dependent on us, the more opportunities we will have to satisfy those other urges.

So here's the Throwback post from that cruise getaway originally posted here on July 7, 2009:

Pina Colada, anyone?

"Four days?!? You and Daddy are gonna be gone for four days?"

"Yes, Ben, that is why (pause here for dramatic emphasis) you get to rent FOUR Blockbuster movies for grandma's house!! Isn't that gonna be cool?!?"

"But Maaaamaaaa, I don't waaaant you and Daddy to be gone for four days. I want to be with you guys aaaaall the time."

We have been telling Ben about our upcoming "Mommy and Daddy Vacation" for a few days now. I think it just hit him today that maybe, just maybe, he might have a problem with it. It seems that 4 rental movies do not cancel out 4 days of no Mama and Dada. Darn.

Hubby and I are big believers in spending quality grown-up couple time together. We do not think a fancy dinner can be romantic with 2 children sitting at the table with us (in spite of what some parents we know tell us...repeatedly). We do not think a family vacation--although wonderful in its own right--is as relaxing or as recharging for the marriage as a true getaway all alone. I realize that not everyone has this option. We do. We have my mom, Babysitter Extraordinaire. We are lucky. Really lucky.

So we will be leaving in exactly 40 hours (um, ehem, approximately), and we will tap into our Old Selves. The ones we were before we were Mama and Daddy. The ones we were when we met. And dated. And held hands. And kissed. And giggled. And flirted. And, uh, other stuff. It's hard to be Those People in our daily lives. It's hard to...and we try, Lord knows, we try. We reach out across the expanse of our family room, strewn with rattles, Hot Wheels cars, balls, books, and Nerf darts, and we try to reconnect as often as possible. With winks. With kisses. With smiles. With hugs. And after we put the boys down to sleep, we try to, with some regularity, open a bottle of wine, put on some music, talk (yes, really talk) and love each other. On the best nights, it feels like old times. On the worst nights, we're too tired to even bother with any of it. On most nights, we manage to steal an hour to ourselves before we collapse with exhaustion. This is Our Lives right now. It's what we want. But it's hard.

If you're lucky enough to be parenting with someone you'd still marry all over again, then it can definitely be more rewarding, but in some ways it can make day-to-day life even more frustrating. Because when you actually like the person you're parenting with, when you actually miss him even though he's still right there, living with you, sleeping in your bed, making breakfast with you everyday, helping you turn little boys into men, well, then it can be doubly hard because it's the parenting that's keeping you apart. So to have four...count 'em...four whole days and nights to OURSELVES on a cruise ship...away from the Real World, away from Our Current Lives, away from...yes, The Kids...it will be heaven. But as I finalize my packing, as I count down the last few hours, as I get my passport ready, I realize that I am leaving behind 2 little boys...one who will notice our absence, really notice it, for the first time, and in spite of the promises of Blockbuster movies, special outings with the grandparents, no bedtimes, and extra candy, well...the truth of the matter is, fortunately or unfortunately, he still likes being with us best.

So when I heard the panic creeping into his voice today, I felt a bit of the same panic creeping into me. Not so much because I will miss him, but because I want him to behave for Grandma and Grandpa...I want him to have fun...I want him to be happy...and, I have to admit, I want to leave guilt-free. And if he is clinging to my leg upon my departure, it will take me more than a couple of umbrella drinks to unwind and really let go. And letting go is the whole purpose of this trip.

I think I'm gonna need a lot of singles for the bartenders.