My escape

How many times had I wished I could run away—from the whining, arguing, refusal to eat dinner, and sass and disrespect along with my subsequent redirecting, reminding, and sanctioning. And laundry, cooking, and responsibility. From everything.

 

If I drove past a “1 BR Apartment for Rent” sign on my way to work, I imagined what it would be like to have a place of my own.

 

I remembered what life was like when I didn’t have to worry about anyone but myself and I could do what I wanted when I wanted to.

 

I imagined taking a shower where I could wash my hair AND shave my legs, eating grownup food (anything besides chicken nuggets), and watching things other than G-rated shows on TV.

 

But then it was never long before my mind wandered to how could I fit bunk beds and a crib in a one-bedroom? And I’d laugh to myself when I realized it wasn’t running away if I brought everything and everyone with me.

 

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