Oct. 8, 2009

Last weekend I ditched my needy little herd and made my way, via a girlfriend, to a remote cabin, far from the sound of Dora the Explorer, or the stench of forgotten sippy cups. (Just for the record, it really pays to be friends with people who casually own cabins on or near water, especially if you’re willing to watch their kids pro-bono on a regular basis).
We left our husbands and collective brood to fend for themselves while we basked in silent sunshine and sipped our prescription sodas.

Our weekend was filled with musty paperbacks and intermittent dips in the hot tub. It’s amazing how much they knew back in the ’60s, I was under the impression that we live in an enlightened era. How refreshing to find out ’60s self-help books are still kind of helpful (minus the suggested Beehive hair-dos and accompanying house dresses).

Alas, all good things must end. Making my way home on Sunday evening, I was curious to see how the family fared. Since both my girlfriend and I had conveniently forgotten to charge our cell phones before leaving, we had been virtually unavailable the entire weekend.

“Hi, honey!” Mr. June Cleaver said as I walked in the door. Somehow he couldn’t quite keep the slightly falsetto I’m-going-to-kill-these-kids note out of his voice.

Taking stock, I noticed that the house was in a relatively clean state. Then I spied the laundry, carefully displayed all over the dining room table in neatly organized stacks. Three loads, washed, dried and folded. Not bad.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

“Great!” Again with the forced enthusiasm. I couldn’t help feeling a little empathetic. As a full-timer, I think it would be pretty tough to step into my stilettos and manage a house and three kids for an unsupervised weekend.

“So, why didn’t you put the laundry away?” I asked, because I’m mean like that. We all know why he didn’t put the laundry away. Proof.

“Huh? I mean, look how much I did, I, uh, I thought you’d want to see.”

As a 24/7 housekeeper, I know all about “the tour.” You spend all day cleaning and scrubbing and washing and organizing, then two minutes before Mr. Significant walks in the door, the kids spill a gallon of chocolate milk and dump out a bin of Legos. It’s enough to make you drag him straight to the linen closet and yell, “Look! See? I worked today!”

I had to smile as I looked around the house and noticed the vacuum streaks on the carpet and the dust free piano. My man had seriously worked, and if I hadn’t paid a little attention I would have seriously missed it.

“Wow, honey, the house looks great!” He beamed.

“Hey, come see the bedroom! I cleaned off the top of the dresser…”

The best part? As he walked into our gently destroyed home this evening, he looked around at the throw pillows hurled all over the living room floor, and the trail of Cheerios leading from the kitchen and said with delightful disgust, “You kids. Your mom works so hard, I just don’t know how she does it.”

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