Last night Hubby and I fulfilled one of our deepest fantasies. No. We didn’t go all 50 Shades of Grey over here, you guttersnipe. It was much better. Last night we ran away from home.

 I had no idea it would come to this. You see, Hubby has been working 12 and 13 hour days recently and I was putting in some extra hours, since my partner in cookie baking crime has been out of town. No problem, happy to do it. What turned out to be a problem were the darn kiddlets.

 Last night, I didn’t get home until 7:15. The kids were on the front lawn having a boys vs girls dance off with their friends. Well, all except Miss Teen Wonder and her friend, who were busily mocking said dancers from their vantage point in the air conditioned living room. Normally, I would have thought, “How utterly adorable. How heartwarming to see them enjoying each others’ company. How charming.” but then again, normally I’m not quite so tired.

 7:15 and nothing was done. There were extra children that I was apparently supposed to feed, the clothes were still on the line, their debris was everywhere, my repeated texts and phone calls imploring that they please, please at least make a salad had all been ignored. The table wasn’t even set.

 Worse, to my fragile way of thinking, when I arrived home, there was barely an acknowledgement that now might be a good time to hop into gear and help. They all continued doing exactly what they were doing, which was nothing, merely extending me an imperial nod, then waiting for the serving wench to prepare that night’s repast.

Oh, I’ll give you supper, alright.

 I went into the kitchen. I turned on the stove. I filled a pan with water. I turned off the stove and picked up the phone.

 “Honey? Take me out to dinner.”

 And so he did. The kids, sensing something was up, circled around us.

 “What’s going on?”

 “Well,” I said, “we’re going out to eat.”

 The kids exchanged excited high-fives, “ALRIGHT!”

 “I think you misunderstand,” I said, “YOU are not going out to eat, WE (pointing at their father and myself) are going out to eat. YOU may eat whatever you find. Good luck and god bless.” …and then we left.

 Was that too harsh? Let me remind you, these are not little children; Miss Teen Wonder receives college applications almost daily, Eldest Son is one year away from high school and the rest are bumping up against middle school, so it’s not like I left a group of toddlers with a can of tuna fish and a manual can opener. They can make supper. They could have made supper before I came home. But they didn’t.

 To be fair, as the twins pointed out, I hadn’t asked them to make dinner. Which is true. But I have repeatedly demanded that the table be set by 5:00 and I have, at various points, taken each of them by the shoulders and turned them 360 degrees, imploring that they look (!) and see what needs to be done.

 Besides, who really needed a night out? The kids? Phffffft. How is eating in a restaurant any different than any other night food magically appears before them? I’m quite certain that they were capable of taking five minutes off of posting instagram photos and watching One Direction videos on YouTube to pour themselves a bowl of cereal, or, as it turned out, to make a pot of Mac-N-Cheese. (See? They CAN cook!)

Nope. I was the one who needed a break, if only to keep me from shrieking in a voice I clearly remember my mother using on her own, ungrateful brood, “Are you shitting me with this?!!!” which, though I didn’t recognize it at the time, was a perfectly legitimate question.

 Tonight, no matter what happens, I will go home, pat the little darlings on the head (BAM!) and cook them dinner, same as I do 364 days of the year. The house may still be a messy pit, the salad probably isn’t done, but I will bet my sweet bippy that at the very least, the table will be set. And if not, I’ll meet you at the restaurant. The reservation is under “Mr. and Mrs. Hell No.”

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The Rise & Fall of a Momocracy

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