Our weekend trip to Disney was fun. I mean, I knew we were going to have fun even if it was Clark Griswald’s “We’re all gonna have so much fucking fun we’re gonna need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles” kind of fun, but it ended up being the real deal fun.
The hotel was fantastic, being with friends was a blast, FastPass+ rocked, the boys braved (and loved!) Splash Mountain, and I kicked everyone’s butt on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin.
My score! For real life!
I connected with my husband, laughed with my kids, went with the flow (even when the Polynesian Luau Dinner Show turned out to be a really bad idea), put my phone away, watched fireworks with my bare feet in the sand, and was present. Present.
Magic Kingdom fireworks seen from the beach at Disney’s Polynesian Resort.
It was an amazing getaway, and it reminded me how much I totally and completely love my family and friends, and how easy and pure and comfortable and fun it is to be with them.
Then we came home, and home is hard.
Home is laundry and dinner that no one wants to eat and hockey gear and hurry up and bills and we’re out of milk and homework and alarms and school lunches and get dressed and tie your own shoes and you flooded the bathroom again and house projects that need to be done whether we stay or sell and relentless work schedules and writer’s block and pressure to publish and fear of rejection and the reality of rejection and I have nothing to wear and I feel fat and wanting to turn back time because parents do get old and they don’t age the way we want and not fitting in.
Home is uneasy. It’s lonely. It’s wanting more and wanting less. It’s wondering what’s next. It’s wishing days and relationships and health and to-dos and everything were easier, lighter, and happier.
Like when we were away.
I’ve felt an unexplainable sadness this week. A similar feeling washed over me when Mike and I returned from our 10th anniversary cruise. As soon as the ship sailed away, we rediscovered the Us that had been lost in the grind of our home life. Quite frankly, it was a relief to know it was still there, but as soon as we disembarked, it was lost again. Last weekend, I caught a glimpse of Us again – this time the Us that included our children – but the glimpse was too brief, and the return home has been jarring.
Home is where life is. Real life and all of the chaos and grit that buries Us deep. Home is where the heart is, but home is where the hard is, too.
Us.
The Runaway Mama by Jen Gregory 