We are on a family vacation for the girls’ Spring Break. About a year ago, after seeing photos that Jill had posted on Facebook of yet another multi-state exploit with her brood, I decided to break out of Southeastern U.S. safety zone and try to get the ladies to all 50 states before they finish college. Toward that effort, we planned a week-long trip to sunny California.

Today was our first full day in San Diego and I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say it has been one of the most wonderful days of my life. We woke early, still on East Coast time, and enjoyed an in-room breakfast of donuts and fresh fruit. After weeks of East Coast cold and rain, we emerged to sunshine and warm air. We then headed off to the world famous San Diego Zoo, home to over 4,000 animals of 800 different species. We had a private tour in a golf cart by a staff member who zipped us around the 100-acre park, regaling us with tales of hippo babies, koala gestation and panda mating practices. We heard pandas talk and saw one do a handstand to impress his girlfriend who is in seaon. We saw a koala engage in a highly unusual bit of aerobic exercise, viewed a two-week old giraffe and stood within four feet of a majestic elephant who winked at Tate.

Later in the day, we did the behind-the-scenes tour. During the tour, we had the opportunity to pet and feed a rhino. The experience was amazing, if a little slimy. By the way, nothing makes a girl feel svelte like standing next to a rhino. I am going to have all of my photos taken next to rhinos from now on.

But I digress. We also had the chance to feed flamingos directly from cups we held. We stroked a kangaroo. We stood within a foot of a cheetah. We howled along with a white wolf who stood a mere two feet away. We learned about how former shelter dogs help cheeetahs adjust to zoo life and the symbiotic relationship of the pairs. We met a snappily adorned donkey named Sophia. I had the fourth largest member of the rat family pelt me with partially-chewed banana and I was completely charmed by the experience. He looked kind of like a beaver and I felt special that he picked me to share his fruit with.

After seven hours of magical zoo fun, we returned to the hotel where Darling Hubby took the girls for a swim at the resort’s heated pool. The ladies enjoyed the pool’s waterfall and virgin daquiris and splashing in the sunshine. Hotel pools rate up their with Santa with my girls and this one, which was highly anticipated, did not disappoint.

After swim, we all headed to Pacific Beach to try a Thai restaurant we had read about online. The girls wielded their chopsticks like experts and enjoyed their first foray into Thai cuisine. The meal was delicious – pad see ew, basil beef, edamame, shrimp, cucumber salad – each bite yummier than the one before. No one spilled a drink. No one got up to pee 27 times during the meal. No one fought over who gets to sit next to Mommy. It was a harmonious, delicious, lovely meal with nary a crayon in sight.

After dinner, we walked down to the beach to watch the sunset and to let the girls dip their toes in the Pacific Ocean for the first time. We watched the surfers. The girls held hands and scampered in the waves. We walked on the chilly sand and watched the locals with their dogs.  Because the girls had expressed an interest in meeting “real California boys,” I approached a surfer straight out of central casting, twentyish, not an ounce of body fat evident under his wetsuit, tanned, blond, ice-blue eyes. In my best “I am not a cougar nor am I insane voice” I explained that my daughters wanted to meet a real California surfer and that he would make their day if he obliged. Casey obliged and I got a photo of the girls looking like the won the lottery standing next to the posterboy for southern California. “You can really pick ‘em, Mom” Cat giggled.

This was the kind of day I hope for when planning a family trip, but the kind that we never quite seem to pull off. But today, the bickering was de minimis. The sun was shining. We did a half dozen things that we had never done before and aren’t likely to do again. Today was quite simply, golden. As golden and lovely and wrinkle-free as Surfer Casey.

I told the girls that they needed to each write two postcards tonight. I wanted them to commit some of these fabulous memories to paper and to share them with those that they love. Selfishly, I also wanted to see what they would say about all of today’s magical, memorable experiences. I wanted to relive this amazing day through their eyes and words.

Be careful what you wish for, my friends. 

At the risk of spoiling the surprise, after all that we saw and experienced, Cat, 9,  wrote to my parents, “Dear Grandma and Pop-pop, Today I went to the zoo. And got a stuffed koala. Love, Cat.”

Earlier this year I was the subject of an article that ran in an in-house publication. For the article, I was asked if I had made any New Year’s resolutions. I said that I had made only one, to try to be the person that my kids think I am.

My Darling Hubby thought that was a strange answer. “What do you mean by that? You are who the kids think you are. What are you, some kind of secret agent?”

But I am not who my kids think I am. My daughters, for reasons I do not understand, see a better version of me than really exists. They think THEIR MOM is wise, organized, loving, kind, patient and able to handle anything. I am those things, sometimes, usually when I am asleep. The real me spends a lot of time being cranky, tired, disorganized, selfish, chubby, lazy and not remotely able to get it all under control. The point is that my kids think I am beautiful and have it all figured out – EASY PEASY LEMON SQUEEZY. That’s who THEIR MOM is.

I understand the disconnect. I have it with my own Mom. She and Dad were up last week to celebrate Cat’s birthday and somehow someone raised the question, “Who is the biggest prude sitting at this table?” Without hesitation I emphatically blurted, “Mom.” My Dad laughed so hard I thought he would choke, and my Mom gave me hurt and puzzled look. My friend Beth chided me when I defended my answer but I dug in saying, “It has to be Mom. My MOM is a lady.”

And it’s true. MY MOM IS a lady. I think I can count on one hand with fingers left the number of times I have heard her utter a profanity. I have never once heard her discuss her sex life, either with my father or before my father. She blushes when we mention her first kiss and changes the subject. She is unfailingly kind to friends and strangers alike. She never wears clothing that is too revealing or too young. She has no tattoos that I know of. I have never even heard MY MOM tell an off-color joke. MY MOM is a lady. She is appropriate to her core. She will probably write thank you notes in advance for the people who attend her funeral.

I, on the other hand, am more like my Dad. I like off-color jokes. I am fluent in profanity. I have threatened to get a tattoo on my hip that says “You must be this tall to ride this ride.” I am often not appropriate, even when I try to feign appropriateness. I say things that cause other people’s jaws to drop, often when I am just saying what I think. I don’t TRY to be inappropriate any more than I TRY to have brown eyes. It’s inherent and inherited.

The other night, Cat was explaining sex to her sister and said it was when a boy stuck his penis into a girl’s vagina and peed on her eggs and when he was done, it could make a baby. Without looking up from the laundry I was folding, I yelled from the other room, “No honey, we have talked about this before. You really need to get the facts straight. A boy doesn’t pee. HE EJACULATES. He E-JAC-U-LATES sperm which fertilizes the egg. If a boy pees on you during sex, he isn’t doing it right.” My husband gave me a death glare and walked out of the room shaking his head. I went back to folding the laundry.

I am quite sure I have never heard MY MOM utter “ejaculate” or “if a boy pees on you during sex.” MY MOM, the person I know, would never do that. I think the only time I heard MY MOM mention sex was when she was referring to gender.

Now, for all I know, she could be Whore of Babylon behind closed doors. Maybe she and Dad let their freak flags fly in ways I could never fathom involving Jell-O and midgets and sparklers. To that I say, EWWWWW ICK and rock on you crazy kids. But I am sure MY MOM would never do that because MY MOM is a lady. The person I believe MY MOM to be will chew me out for the off-color nature of this post. The woman married to my dad who shares MY MOM’s name and body might start Googling “Jell-O midget sparkler fun.”

I should get back to my original point which is I strive to be the person my daughters believe me to be. THEIR MOM is honest and good. THEIR MOM is fair and kind. THEIR MOM does the right thing because it is the right thing to do.

I may be starting to see myself more through their eyes.

Tonight I was at Target. I had stopped on the way home from work to pick up a few things, giddy at the prospect of a few minutes in Target without the kids. The person manning the check-out line was a former colleague and so I stood there a good 10 minutes or so catching up with her on how she was. When I got to the parking lot I unloaded the bags and then looked under the cart and saw two boxes of sparkling water. I checked the receipt, which though it totaled an amount that was my rent in college, did not include charges for two boxes of raspberry-flavored sparkling water. My friend had been so busy chatting with me, she hadn’t charged me the $4.98.

I started to close up the car. It was less than $5. Target easily gets a disproportionate share of my income every month. It was no big deal. I was tired. I wanted to get home. I needed to pee. I had a million things I needed to do. I didn’t feel like marching back across the parking lot and into the store. I am no Pollyanna and I wasn’t going to lose sleep over $5 worth of sparkling water. I had a $5 Target gift card in my bag and thought about just leaving that in the cart for the next person to find.

And then I thought “What would I do if the girls were with me?” If the girls were with me, I would go back into the store, explain the mistake and pay for the water. I would want to model good behavior and help instill good morals. I would take the time to do the right thing so they knew what the right thing to do was, regardless of the amount of money or inconvenience. Well, I wouldn’t do all of that, but THEIR MOM would.

Dammit. Damn kids and their belief in me. Damn sweet faces. THEIR MOM would do the right thing.

And so THEIR MOM did. THEIR MOM grabbed one of the boxes and the receipt and marched back in to Target. THEIR MOM waited for her friend to check out the person she was helping. THEIR MOM explained the error and apologized for distracting her friend and paid the $4.98 while I/me/the me that is not their Mom rolled my eyes.

I am not the person my children believe that I am. But I hope I am becoming more like THEIR MOM a little more every day.

I miss knowing everything. It was a nice feeling.

Before I had children, I didn’t actually believe that I knew everything (my physics and chemistry grades being strong evidence to the contrary). That said, I rarely felt like the dumbest person in the room.

In fact, when it came to things, like child-rearing, something I knew NOTHING about, I felt like I knew a lot and had no trouble voicing my opinion from time to time to friends who were parents. I cringe when I think now to about 10 years ago when my friends’ children were small at how I would tease them or offer helpful hints when I had absolutely no point of reference other than my complete and utter devotion to my beagle, Vandal.

Two close friends of mine, Mary and Karin, demonstrated obscene patience with me. For example, both would come into work and relay their feelings of guilt at leaving their kids at day care. They would tear up at recounting the morning’s painful departure that left both mom and child inconsolable. They would describe their pain and angst at whether their choices for their children were right, how torn they felt, how the suffered and how they questioned their abilities as mothers. Caring nuturer and good friend that I was at the time, I recall saying things like, “Jesus, Mary, you left them at day care, not prison. Let’s get a blueberry muffin and you will feel better.”

When my friend Karin told me that she and her husband had not been away alone anywhere together for more than 10 years, I was aghast. What? Seriously? How? Good God woman, get thee to a resort sans kinder and pronto. I am sure I said something like, “Your children cannot be your whole world. It’s not good for you or them. Let’s go get a blueberry muffin and you will feel better.”

Karin and Mary are saints. Despite my popping off over the years, they still, for reasons I do not at all comprehend, love me. I probably make them feel smart and sane and wise by comparison.

Of course they have had the delicious pleasure of watching me eat buffet-loads of crow over the last nearly nine years. I called them sobbing when I took Cat to day care for the first time. She was there for an entire THREE HOURS and I believe I cried for four. Though the wonderful day care ladies demonstrated patience and expertise that I will never possess, I was sure that during lunch, they would put down the books and diaper wipes and poke her with needles or tell her she wasn’t as cute as the other babies. Clearly my fears were based in reality, since Tate to this day calls one of her day care teachers her “other Mommy.”

While I could, ten years ago, somewhat understand the day care angst, the vacation-away-without-the-kids angst eluded me entirely. I figured if there were responsible grandparents or other close family or friends in the picture, my friends should run like hell to the nearest beach and commence wasting away in Margaritaville and not come back until the cash ran out.

So with that lengthy preamble, Mary and Karin, this one is for you.

It has been five years since Darling Hubby and I have gone away on vacation without the kids. We went to St. Lucia for his 40th birthday for 5 days and if I recall correctly, our cell phone bill that month was, I kid you not. over $350 calling home to check on Cat and Tate who were being spoiled silly by their grandparents.

Since then, we have sent the kids for several stays with my parents for up to 8 days at a time. But while the kids are at Camp Grammy and Poppy’s being spoiled silly, we do things like paint their rooms, clean their closets, shovel out the playroom or dare to clean under their beds. Sure, we may go out to dinner. But over Chang’s chicken wraps we discuss whether Tate is sleeping through the night, whether Cat is practicing her math, our plans for our next family trip, or some other item related to the children. While the children are gone, they aren’t really, and even in their absence, our world continues to revolve around them.

I have become THAT mother. My kids, alas, are the center of my world. My universe does in fact revolve around them. Everyone else, even Darling Hubby whom I adore, is secondary.

And here I sit, awakened at 5 a.m. staring at a suitcase. It contains Hubby’s swimsuit and polo shirts. I can’t put any of my clothes in because I have already filled it with guilt.

Yes, Darling Hubby and I are taking a long weekend, without the girls, to someplace with sunshine and fruity drinks, to celebrate my 40th birthday. And yes, I have spent the last week increasingly panic-stricken at the notion.

The kids are not helping. Yesterday morning, Cat awoke crying saying that she had a bad dream that something happened to us on our trip. Tate is refusing to sleep until we return. Last night, Cat asked Darling Hubby to swear that nothing bad would happen to us and then tearfully and dramatically announced that she would kill herself in anything did. Tate chimed in that she would be “bummed.”

Although I know logically that this was all a ploy to induce guilt and merely masterful manipulation, it worked. I know that they will be fine. In fact, they have a fabulous weekend planned. I know they will be well cared for in our absence. I know that they will be safe and loved and will have entire chunks of time when they are not laying on the carpet sobbing and missing me. I know. I know. I know.

This knowledge did not help last night when they curled up next to me and whispered, “Don’t go, Mommy.” Ridiculous as I know I sound, it took every ounce of will-power I had not to jump up and cancel our trip. Had my husband not been packing his own suitcase (something that NEVER happens), I probably would have. But he has been counting the days until this trip and is excited about it as I am conflicted.

Every year during our annual Disney trek, we look at each and say, “We need to take a trip with just the two of us.” I mean it when I say it. Now the time is here, and my will is faltering. There are rooms to clean, a laundry mountain to scale, homework to help with, a Leprechaun trap to build. Maybe this isn’t the best weekend to get away from it all. Maybe after they start college, or grad school, or are retired.

For all my grousing, cursing, grumbling, pleas for a break and fantasies of time away on a beach with fruity drinks, when confronted with the reality of leaving the kids, even for a long weekend, my heart aches. I want a break. And I don’t. I want to unplug. And I don’t. I want to show them (and me) that Mom and Dad can focus on each other for more than 30 seconds and that it is important. And I don’t. I know what the right thing to do is. And I don’t. I used to know it all. And now I surely do not.

Mary and Karin, (or anyone else) feel free to heap on the advice and the ridicule. I know I have it coming. I know that I am being ridiculous. I know we will go and have a great time and we will all survive it without signs of long-term trauma. I just don’t know how I will be able to swallow the fruity drinks with this huge lump in my throat.

At my age, I should know better.

My dad has a long-held belief that when things are going badly, don’t sweat it, in fact, go ahead and smile, because it means that things are going to turn around at any minute. Likewise, when things are going well, he believes, look out, because it will all hit the fan soon.

Given that I grew up with this philosophy, and have adopted it to a large extent myself, I should have known better.

I had a fantastic day yesterday. My parents came to town to celebrate my birthday early. I had a bacon and ketchup sandwich for breakfast, a personal favorite. My parents treated me to a pedicure and facial at the local spa which left me feeling the most relaxed I have felt in literally years. They took all of us out to lunch at one of my favorite restaurants. They let me get tipsy and then took me shopping. With a Pinot Grigio buzz, I dragged them to three separate shopping areas where they cheerfully feigned interest in picture frames, pillows, candles and the like and encouraged me to shop until I could shop no more while they paid the bill. I had my parents all to myself for a few hours, not interrupted by kids or dogs or phones or work or chaos. I made my mom giggle hysterically by telling her I wanted a candle that smelled like a fireplace. And then, just when I thought it could not get any better, they entertained my husband and kids for the evening and I got no less than twelve, count them, TWELVE hours of uninterrupted sleep. It was one of my top 10 days ever and I would be hard pressed to tell you other days that I have enjoyed nearly as much.

So, I should have known better than to get out of bed today. I should have known after a day that good, the thunderclouds would gather.

First, I awoke and went into the kitchen where I found a big pile of dog poo. Somehow the dogs had been put up for the night without access to their dog door. Still, a pile of poo seemed a small price to pay for my fabulous Saturday, so I cleaned it up and went about my morning.

I was taking the price tags off my shiny new over the door towel hanger (happy birthday to me) when the scissors slipped and I cut my finger. Forty minutes and three paper towels later, my husband and I started talking about whether a trip to the emergency clinic was in order. Today I used up nearly our entire supply of Hello Kitty band-aids trying to staunch the flow.

While hugging my parents goodbye, the kids said to my mom, “Tickle mommy!” Mom, forgetting my back has been in knots lately did, starting a series of spasms that lasted all day.

The day started to look up when Tate received an impromptu invite for a sleep-over at her best friend’s house. We packed her up and shipped her off only to receive a call 25 minutes later that she was complaining of stomach pains and diarrhea. At first we thought maybe she was just scared to spend the night away from us but it turned out her complaints had an unfortunate and very valid basis.

By this point, I had decided to just crawl into bed with Tate and a good book and wait for tomorrow to come. I figured the universe was having its fun but that there was only so much that could happen as we lay under the covers, her watching Phineas and Ferb and me quasi-reading a book. Again, at my age, I should know better.

When she said it, I felt like someone had hit me in the head with a board.

“Mommy,” Tate said. “I know something that I shouldn’t know about.” Her tone was uncharacteristically serious and a little scared.

“What’s that honey?” I asked.

“I know what sex abuse is,” she said. “I know all about it.”

I stopped breathing. No. No. No. No. No. No. No, take back the frames and the candles and the wine and the funny socks. I don’t need spa treatments. I will never eat bacon again. Take it all. Take every damn thing Universe so that I am not having this conversation with one of my girls. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

“I’m sorry sweetie,” I said in my calmest voice. “Could you repeat that for me?”

“I said I know what sex abuse is,” she said.

“Ahhhhhhh. Okay, that is what I thought you said but I wanted to be sure. How do you know what sex abuse is?” I asked, already mentally preparing to kill someone whose identity I did not know.

“Sissy told me. She told me not to tell you but she found out and she told me but she doesn’t want you to know.”

No. No. No. This is not happening. No. What did I miss? How could I not know? Who? How? When? No. No. No. No.

Again, feigning a calm I did not feel and trying to avert a complete panic attack I asked, “Oh yeah? You two have some pretty interesting conversations. Why don’t you fill me in? What did Sissy tell you about sex abuse?”

Tate leaned in, looked around and then whispered to me, “It’s when you make fun of sex.”

Apparently the universe was not going to make me pay for my fabulous pre-birthday bash by giving my a day I could not survive. Not today anyway. I let out a loud squawk – part laugh, part brutal exhale of relief. After a minute, my breathing returned to normal, and I explained to Tate in age appropriate language, the true definition of the phrase and reminded her what to do should she run into anything approximating what we were discussing.

Clarity restored to her and sanity to me, she snuggled back into bed peacefully oblivious to the fact that in a few short minutes she likely shaved a decade off my life. The panic, the rage, the terror evaporated, leaving just a few vapor trails in their wake. I am nauseous. She is fine.

But now that I am feeling relatively calm and happy again – now that we feel the sunshine on our faces – I will still be looking out and waiting for the next storm to hit.

I turn 40 next week.

40.

That seems like such an adult age. The trouble is, most days, I do not feel like an adult. I feel like a teenager left home alone for an extended period of time, and while I am enjoying my freedom, I am also waiting for the adults to return and take over.

I used to think that by the time I was 40, I would have it all figured out. I had my checklist of things to do, things to achieve, things to be, things to own and I thought, once I had checked off the items on my list, I would have arrived. I thought, foolishly, that once the list was fulfilled, I would be too, and that life from that point on would be smooth sailing, with just the occasional bit of choppiness to keep it interesting. I believed, as my good friend Mary used to espouse, that life was supposed to be inherently fair and that most problems could be solved with chocolate chip cookies.

Yes, I was dumb enough, or more kindly naive enough, until very recently, to believe that if I went to school, obtained my degrees, married a nice guy, had adorable children, landed the big job and worked my tail off that everything would fall into place and nirvana would be achieved. We would have fat bank accounts, a big house, a gaggle of urbane and loyal friends, a pack of dogs, take fabulous trips and I would be tan and fit and wise and calm and witty.

It has been like that. And it hasn’t.

I went to school and obtained my degrees. I married a nice, funny, fun, good-hearted guy. We divorced. I married another nice, funny, fun, good-hearted guy. We had two adorable children in rapid succession. I landed a biggish job doing work that I find interesting and challenging. Our friends are kind, wonderful, lovely people. We have a big house, three dogs, we take a family vacation annually. I am told I can be witty.

We also have a huge mortgage that makes my stomach hurt if I think about it. Not a month goes by that something doesn’t need repair, replacement, or resusitation. One of my dogs likes to eat drywall. She has eaten parts of the laundry room and kitchen at least a half dozen times. My job is interesting but interesting and challenging can sometimes be code for “I am in way over my head.” I need to lose 40 pounds. I am a pasty shade of white except for my freckles and the dark circles under my eyes. My children, the loves of my life and the centers of my universe, often leave me feeling exhausted and inadequate. I recall my husband as being a lot of fun, though honestly, I don’t think we have exchanged more than 100 words not related to the kids or the house in months. We normally see our friends when we drop off our kids for birthday parties and yell across the room that we really need to get together sometime soon. Grandmas and dogs died. Moms deal with unfair illnesses. Our bank accounts aren’t fat but my ass is.

Those wiser than me have always said that life is about the journey, not the destination. But I have always been more of a destination kind of girl. I like plans, checklists, color-coded excel spreadsheets but as a means to easing the path to the final destination, to speed up and smooth the journey. I have always been goal-oriented, not process oriented. I have always wanted to GET THERE so that then, finally, all would be right in the world.

I am teased for how often I clean my closets. I do it at least quarterly. It is my feeble attempt to bring order to chaos. I like taking a big mess, diving in, and at the end of the day, having it look perfect. It enhances my faulty belief that I can always bring order to chaos, no matter how big the challenge and that at the end of the day, all will be neat and tidy and in its place. Destination reached, nirvana and peace achieved, time for a glass of wine and some chocolate. I get frustrated when I cannot make my life mirror my closets. Or rather, when my life mirrors my “before” closets.

If you have read this far, you are probably waiting for a pithy closing or a wise ending. To quote the Princess Bride, “Life is full of disappointment. Get over it.” I will be 40 in a few days. I do not have all the answers. I do not even know all of the right questions. All I know is that I have my to-do list, a desire to bring order to chaos, an improved appreciation for the chaos that is ours, and a bottle of wine in the fridge. That’ll keep me until the real adults arrive and take over.