Does anyone remember when Marie Osmond ran away? Sometimes, I swear, I’m the only one that ever read that story. She was so overwhelmed, she walked out the door without her kids, got in her car and off she went. She drove for hours and hours and finally ended up at some hotel. Crazy, right?
I mean, I have never locked myself in a bathroom with a good book or waited in my car in the driveway with the babysitter inside for an extra 5 minutes of peace (who am I kidding, we all know it was more like 30 minutes) before entering the war zone or wandered around Target for hours without kids, aimlessly throwing stuff in my cart as a way to close the hole in my soul (I am not the least bit dramatic) or went to a bar and drank all day … wait, I’m not sure that last one happened. More a thought … a dream perhaps … and less reality.
I’ve never hid in the house from my kids or walked out the door and sat on the curb in front of my house with my head in my hands or drove my kids to the Hubby’s office and pronounced “I’M DONE!”.
I most DEFINITELY have not asked the kids to make dinner because I “wasn’t in the mood” or laid on the couch all day and stared at the wall or let a baby cry a little too long in the crib because I couldn’t face one more shitty diaper.
Even with the kids getting older and dealing less with baby and toddler issues, I still find myself telling people that I may or may not pull a “Marie Osmond” that day.
The Hubby and I use the phrase “there’s always one” quite often. Because, frankly, there is ALWAYS one. One melting down. One having an issue. One sick. One angry. One sad. One stuck upside down on a swing. Whatever. But the days I want to “Marie Osmond” it, well, those are the days it’s all three. I seriously go into survival mode. It’s like fight or flight here. And I’m ashamed to admit it, but I usually flee.
So maybe I should get one of Marie Osmond’s creepy QVC dolls and place it prominently in my house as a reminder that, worse case, I can go check into a hotel.