I just came back from a brief getaway, and for the first time ever, I left my kids at home without adult supervision. Before anyone rushes to call child services, let me clarify: half of my kids are technically adults. Well, they are on paper at least. So legally, I was in the clear.
Despite their “quasi-adult” status, I won’t pretend it was a stress-free experience. In fact, as the departure date drew near, I noticed more hair than usual ending up on my hairbrush, and a knot of anxiety settled in my stomach. Nightmares plagued my sleep: headlines like “Selfish Parents Perish in Plane Crash” and “Kids Left Alone Arrested for Stealing Snacks, Claiming Partying Parents Left No Food” haunted me. The thought of my home transforming into a party house that racked up thousands in damages was overwhelming. What was I thinking?
For the record, I often challenge my husband on everything from parenting strategies to furniture arrangements. But when he pitched the idea of a solo trip six months ago, I didn’t have much fight left in me; the pros seemed to outweigh the cons. We scored an amazing deal on both our accommodations and flights, our eldest was turning 21 soon, and the rest of the kids were relatively self-sufficient (bathroom habits aside—let’s be real, that issue lingers with teenagers). Plus, our neighborhood watch is top-notch, and I figured my phone would act like a Batphone if any chaos erupted.
But six months flew by, and as packing time approached, I still felt uneasy about the decision. “My parents left me alone for a week when I was in high school,” my husband reminded me. I shot him “the look” (wives everywhere will understand).
I spent days preparing, cooking, and crafting lists. I texted every neighbor who could lend an ear and issued dire threats to my kids regarding their behavior. If anything went awry while I was away, there would be consequences.
So off we went, joining a couple of friends who share our love for Happy Hours, and headed to Myrtle Beach for three days. Myrtle Beach is a lovely spot, but in August, it’s scorching hot. The need for those Happy Hours? Definitely not a coincidence.
Three days isn’t a long time—especially when you’re on a tight schedule—but we made the most of it. We lounged by day and enjoyed drinks by night, sharing laughter and making memories in just 72 hours.
The kids checked in every so often, and only one alert came from the neighborhood watch. When I realized my house hadn’t burned down and no one was in a fistfight, I decided to (cue popular song reference) let it go.
We had a rental car but opted for cabs at night to be responsible. Turns out, my kids were stepping up too.
When we returned, my daughter, Alexis, let out a sigh of relief as she sank onto the couch beside me. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she admitted. It’s amazing how exhausting responsibility can be, right?
My middle son, Jake, was buzzing with excitement. “Mom, you’ve got to see this!” He led me to the kitchen, where the centerpiece fruit bowl held a singular blackened banana and a couple of ancient apples. Instantly, a swarm of fruit flies erupted into the air above it. Note to self: “Throw away rotting fruit” needs to be added to the list next time.
But the question remains: will there be a next time? Possibly, but certainly not anytime soon. I need a moment to recover before even contemplating a repeat.
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In summary, leaving the kids home alone was a journey filled with anxiety, unexpected surprises, and a healthy dose of humor. Parenting is never straightforward, but sometimes, you just have to take the leap.
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