Now, I know it was totally my fault for leaving them in MY BOOKCASE, with MY BOOKS, with strict instructions that the books in the study were Mommy and Daddy's books so leave them alone. In fact, last time I checked, the kiddos were told not to even play in that room. But, I digress...
Anyway, she found my funnies. And decided to start reading one of my personal favorites--"I Was a Really Good Mom, Before I Had Kids." Complete with a cute little quiz at the beginning of each chapter. And she saw, among other embarrassing things, that I had checked off the little box indicating that "yes, I sometimes dream of having my own apartment."
Well, she melted down. Complete, weeping, hysteria.
"Mommy, why, why, why do you want to have your own apartment!!! Don't you love us!!!???"
Yes, my dear lovebug. I love you. I adore you. I worship the ground your sweet little niblet-like toes walk on.
But, yes. I would love my own apartment. Heck, I'd be thrilled to have my own room. Or even a stinking corner.
I think Virginia Woolf had it right when she wrote her essay about how women need a room of one's own. Now, granted, she was talking about women writers, and women fiction writers in specific (I'm basing this on my semi-cognizant memories of college when I was actually in class...paying attention). But, her words strike a cord in almost every heart of every woman (especially mom) out there. Nor am I saying Woolf was filled with great ideas--she did after all fill her pockets with stones and, well, go swimming. But, she did have something there with the whole room thing.
Men dream of their "man caves" (or, as one of MacGyver's friends put it more bluntly--a PMS bunker) and talk about filling it with big screen TVs, stereo systems, surround sound, leather furniture, and a wet bar.
Women dream of a room where no one can disturb them under any circumstances under penalty of death (or at least extended time-outs), and they can't hear the ruckus of family life for just an hour or so. You know, a soundproofed room, inside and out, where we can relax in total silence.
Basically, we want a "panic room". A really nicely decorated panic room.
My room would not have a handle on the outside, so when I was locked inside, no little hands could wiggle the knob or pick the lock (yes, the little DQ can pick a lock. It's actually kind of frightening. I don't know if she has a future as a locksmith or a cat burglar, but her little talent has come in handy--and not so handy--more than once). It would be hermetically sealed so no notes about what one child has done or said to another could be slipped under the door. No husbands could ask where the toilet paper, ketchup, or remote control was while I was relaxing. No phone calls about playdates or Club Penguin would disturb my rest.
And there would be no leather furniture there. Just a big, comfy, overstuffed chair with pillows and a soft throw. And an ottoman, to rest my tired piggies. And books. Lots of books! Without pictures, and that didn't involve stories about fairies or steam shovels.
I'd like to say how I'd have a little tea pot and yummy snacks in my panic room, but let's be realistic. I'm not usually a tea and cookie gal. I'm a candy-colored vodka martini or fancy top-shelf margarita girl. With chips and guac.
Ahhhhh, I can almost feel the chenille of the pretty throw, and the sigh of the overstuffed chair. If I try really hard, I can smell the fruity essence of a drink with an umbrella in it. I imagine reaching for my trashy novel, and....
Oops--there's the bus. Bunnies of all sizes are bopping down the steps, and running and shrieking into the houses, looking for hugs and snacks and attention.
Oh well. Some day. Some day I'll have my
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