Whose Getaway Is It?

Who Needs a Break More, Starshine or Her Kids?

I fantasize about it all year. The week when my kids go to Grandpa's house five hours away, and my husband and I get rare, rapturous grown-up time. The luxury of sleeping late. The freedom of going to a movie on a whim. The enchanting silence and shocking simplicity of tidying up the house — and having it stay tidy. Day after day after day.

I crave it. I treasure it. I deserve it.

But when the time finally comes for our boys to drag their duffle bags out the door, I'm faced with a disturbing revelation: Greater than my need to be temporarily childless is my children's need to be briefly, blissfully motherless.

You see, it turns out I'm a terrible shrew. A nagging control freak. A micro-managing ogress from the soggiest bog of Vex-and-Pester Swamp. As my kids prepare to leave, I chase them around the house like a cartoon mother, wagging a bony index finger and barking orders:

Did you pack your swimsuit? I know I already asked you, but last time you forgot it, so let's be sure. How do you plan on practicing your drums without your drumsticks? Be sure to wear sunscreen every day. And shower once in a while, for goodness' sake. Here's a plastic bag for your laundry; please don't make Grandpa pick up your dirty clothes every night.

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