I recently returned from a brief getaway, and for the first time ever, I left my kids home alone without any adult supervision. Before anyone thinks of calling the authorities, let me clarify: half of my crew are technically (ahem) adults. At least, that’s what their IDs say. Legally, I was in the clear.
Now, don’t get me wrong; the lead-up to this trip was not without its fair share of anxiety. I swear, my hair was shedding more than usual, and I had a constant knot in my stomach. Nightmares plagued my sleep: headlines like “Irresponsible Parents Meet Untimely Demise on Vacation” and “Kids Left Alone Arrested for Raiding the Snack Cabinet” haunted me. What was I even thinking?
For the record, I often debate my husband on everything from parenting styles to which side of the couch the remote should be on. But when he suggested a solo trip over six months ago, I found it hard to argue. The deal on the lodging and flights was too good to resist, our oldest was about to turn 21, and the other three were pretty self-sufficient (well, except for their questionable bathroom habits—teenagers, right?). Plus, our neighborhood watch is top-notch; I figured my phone would be like the Batphone if anything went awry.
But as the departure date approached, I found myself having second thoughts. “My parents left me alone for a week when I was in high school,” my husband reminded me, which prompted the classic wife eye-roll (cue the knowing nods from all the wives out there).
I spent days prepping: cooking meals, creating lists, texting every neighbor I could think of, and issuing stern warnings to my children. If any wild parties were going to happen while I was away, I would ensure they faced the consequences, one by one. It was a race to see who would rat out their siblings first.
So, we packed our bags, grabbed a couple of friends who also couldn’t resist a good Happy Hour, and headed to Myrtle Beach for three glorious days.
Now, Myrtle Beach is lovely, but in August, it’s hotter than a sauna in the Sahara (perhaps that’s why Happy Hours are a thing there?). Three days flew by faster than a roller coaster ride, but we made the most of it, lounging by day and enjoying the nightlife.
Throughout the trip, the kids checked in, and only one concerned neighbor reached out. As the days passed and I realized the house hadn’t burned down and no one was at each other’s throats, I finally allowed myself to relax (cue the popular song reference: I let it go).
We rented a car but opted for cabs at night to be responsible adults. It turns out, my kids were stepping up, too.
Upon our return, my daughter, Emma (19), heaved a sigh of relief when she came home from work. “I’m sooo glad you’re back,” she said, flopping onto the couch beside me. Ah, the weight of responsibility can be exhausting, can’t it?
My middle son, Jake (15), was bursting with excitement. “Mom, you’ve got to see this!” he exclaimed, leading me to the kitchen. He tapped the centerpiece fruit bowl, revealing a blackened banana and some apples that looked like they belonged in a museum. Suddenly, a swarm of fruit flies erupted into the air. Note to self: “Throw out rotting fruit” is definitely going on the next to-do list.
But will I do it all again? Maybe someday, but certainly not anytime soon. I think I’ll wait until my hair starts growing back before planning another trip!
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