Going away and coming home

Husband and the children are going on a road trip next week.

I was supposed to go but in the end I just couldn’t quite face it. I had agreed, initially, to a “family holiday” (oxymoron?) driving through California, stopping at National Parks, spending time at majestic lakes and listening to a special music compilation that Husband had put together for the journey. But as the time for departure drew ever closer, all I could think about was packing/unpacking, dirty clothes, squabbles (junior and adult), whether there would be enough snacks, would Three throw up, who was going to get Poison Oak, how badly I would sleep, how little I cared about looking at a Redwood tree when most of my mind was focused on stopping my toddler from getting lost in the woods, creepy potential pedophiles who may be hanging around at campsites waiting to snatch my precious progeny and on top of that all a seemingly endless string of bad hair days.

I think it’s safe to say I was not going to go into it with the right, Pioneer-style attitude.

So I opted out.

This felt very daring and also made me feel quite anxious on a number of levels.

Husband has never taken the kids off on his own before. I’m sure they’ll all be fine but I do have to stop myself from envisioning Bad Things from happening which I would surely be able to prevent if I was on watchdog duty. I think this is mostly paranoia and reluctance to relinquish control but I keep on envisioning the aforementioned predators trying to capture Six while Husband is sipping coffee and looking the other way, or Three zooming off and down a mountainside before anyone has the chance to catch him. I’m sure this will not happen, but I’m not so sure how to contain my overactive imagination.

It was hard just to say I didn’t want to go. That I had other priorities to attend to, and the top one was, well, ME.

After all, for years now I have been Mummy. It’s been my job to make sure everyone is safe, well-fed, looked after and happy. For mothers, it’s pretty much a job requirement to put others first and yourself last – all of society tells you this including many other mothers, and I also find that once one is in this role it’s quite hard not to place the needs of Husbands above one’s own, too, while one is busy subjugating oneself.
At least that is what has happened to me, almost without my noticing.  And you know I was raised to KNOW BETTER. It infuriates me, but there, I have done it in all sorts of ways which I looked upon as making concessions for the family as a whole, for other people so that they could get what they needed because surely they would then automatically ensure I got what I needed. But of course they didn’t. Not because they wanted to deny me, but because we are each responsible for looking after ourselves. And it turns out that I am very, extremely good at looking after everyone else, but perhaps not quite so good at taking care of myself.

I think I might have handled all of this slightly better if I hadn’t been so thoroughly out of my element at the start of this leg of life’s journey. Those who have been reading for a while will know that at the point I got pregnant with Six we left London, where I was flourishing professionally, and came to Stepford where I  was promptly immersed in new motherhood, adjusting to a new country, trying to make friends in a place where I instinctively felt I didn’t fit in (still think I’m right, there) and Husband’s job was so pressured and all consuming that there was little time, especially once we had Three, to build a life outside the family. And in those years, I lost some of my sense of self, which is shocking, especially if you knew what a strong sort of personality I am, and how very definite, (sometimes frighteningly so)I seem most of the time.

But it’s never too late to be what you might have been, as they say, or in my case, what I used to be, so I blurted out and thus fulfilled my ever growing Home Alone fantasy of somehow being forgotten when they pulled away in the rented minivan in the form of

“Actually, I think I won’t be coming along. I have some important stuff to do”

It wasn’t especially well received. But I didn’t try to defend my position, I just apologised for the inconvenience caused and re-stated it.

I realise that it might have been prudent to say at the outset that I didn’t want to go and then other plans might have been made, but they also might not have been made, at least in a way that would be pleasing to everyone. But I didn’t. I said it now.

And I’m very glad.

I think everyone will survive.

While they’re digging up worms and going for hikes and arguing over the DVD player in the car, I shall be happily ensconced in my studio doing a little composing without stopping to cook  meals, bandage knees, mediate disagreements, fetch people from classes and camps etc. What bliss! It’s been years and years since I had that luxury. And then I think I shall push off to see some friends in the city to sniff out all the things I mentioned in my previous post, and when I go, I shall leave at a moment’s notice, shutting the door behind me precisely when I feel like it and without reporting to anyone.

Welcome back, self. You have been sorely missed.

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