I swear, I’m not trying to brag, but I did just wrap up my second trip to Walt Disney World in less than a month and, well, actually, yes. I am bragging. But I’m not bragging about my ability to jet set in this new life as a travel planner/writer/founder-of-life-outside-corporate-walls (though that is all very nice). You see, I’ve recently learned that visits to Walt Disney World are measured by steps. Step after step after step. So many steps.
This was a four-day 55,000-step trip, 23,000 of which were done in one day.
And, yes, it was for work. If it were for fun, there would have been hours of drinks by the pool sprinkled into those steps.
But this blog isn’t about that trip. This blog is about the here and now. Why the here and now? Because just twelve hours after arriving back home, I waved goodbye to my husband and son as they left for a five-day boys’ trip. That’s right. I am midway through five days of a house emptied of its people.
And I absolutely do mean to brag about that.
Not too loudly, though, as I know my coworkers returned to homes filled with young children and I do feel some empathy for them. I bet they are just struggling to get going again. While I’ve been resting my tired legs by lounging in bed until 9:00 am, they’ve probably done seventy-three laps around the house fixing breakfasts, wiping noses, tripping over toys, and praying to the god of ibuprofen.
This is my message of hope to them: Someday, this will be you.
Someday, you will have the house to yourself for an extended period of bliss.
Ironically, the first time that happens, you will also feel a spike in anxiety because how do you function if not as the chef, driver, and calendar keeper? You will be surprised to feel that anxiety because shouldn’t this be amazing?!?
It will become more natural over time, I promise.
The very first time I was left home alone by my family, I invited begged a friend to come for the weekend. In fairness, I was deep in the mud of menopause which gifted me with endless panic attacks. The second time I was left home alone, I invited the same friend but, by then, it was more for a fabulous girls’ weekend than for a mental babysitter.
This time, I tried my hardest to look sad and lonely as I packed that departing car with snacks, extra socks, and reassurance that I’d be fine. Oh yes, I’d be fine.
The clouds parted as I opened my own snack stash–a stash that I wouldn’t have to share with anyone at all: Doritos, popcorn, tortellini, chicken nuggets, and the makings for root beer floats. I also ordered a pizza. Evidently, for me, “home alone” means retreating to the diet of an eight-year-old boy. I settled down, tv remote in hand, while debating which I would watch first: the new season of Love is Blind first or Amy Schumer’s Life & Beth?
The couch was my oyster.
Sure, I did have a list of things to keep me busy should that pesky anxiety decide to visit but so far, I’ve gotten nothing productive done at all. You know what? That’s okay.
Sometimes a weekend of nothing is the exact thing to place at the top of your to-do list.
Weekends of nothing are not exactly new. My husband and I mastered them years ago when we were in the throes of creating our blended family. The waters were rough with tsunamis plowing into rare moments of peace at least once a week. After one exhausting span filled with arguments, he and I booked a hotel twenty minutes down the road for an overnight. We knew we needed a break from real life but also knew that going any further would eliminate the chance of relaxation because what if there was a crisis? The possibility of a crisis was high. We were going through a lot as a family.
It was bliss, that overnight.
The kids were with their bio mom for the weekend (hence the potential for crisis). We could have just had a kid-free weekend at home, yes, but we would have spent it staring at our to-do list, even if the number one item was “do nothing.” We were not in a place where “Relax” took priority. Things were rocky. Doing alleviated some of that stress yet we very much needed not to do anything at all. Twenty-four hours at a hotel twenty minutes away gave us far more restoration than we could ever have imagined.
Since that first spontaneous overnight away (but not too far away), we have repeated the respite dozens of times. There was a time when we’d swing by the hotel desk to book the next overnight before leaving just to make sure we had a beacon. We learned that, sometimes, the most productive thing we could do for ourselves was not be productive at all.
Back to today. I am midway through my weekend of bliss. I had my first inklings of missing my family when I opened my eyes this morning, a positive sign that life is returning to my exhausted body and brain. I saw that the curtains could use a spin in the washer but was reminded that I am in a husband-directed no-chore era. Dragging a ladder out to pull down curtains would certainly negate that directive, so they will wait.
I did start to add “wash curtains” to the whiteboard but then erased it with my finger lest those words stare at me for the next two days. Smudged across the whiteboard is now a swipe of Dorito dust, a lovely reminder that the only thing on my to-do list right now is “Nothing.”
It is bliss.