By the time you read this, Matt and I will be gone.
Realistically, we won’t have gotten very far. We are probably idling on 95-North in some awful holiday traffic. But we don’t care, because we have our TAL podcasts, our snacks and our soon-to-be lack of babies. And we’re going to NYC, b-words!
This isn’t the first time we’ve spent the night away from our guys. Matt’s awesome aunts Kathy and Nancy hooked us up with a desperately needed night at Tranquil House Inn in Manteo back in August while they watched the babies. We slept until 8:30 AM, like gods. (There was also another attempt at a night away in November that ended prematurely due to some jerk–I mean beloved–dogs who escaped from home after we left.)
This time, however, we are leaving for the whole weekend while Matt’s dad, J.P., and stepmom, Deva, watch them at their beautiful condo in Reston Town Center.
Everyone is going to have a blast (except, maybe, J.P. and Deva). The boys get to explore a new place that has been tricked out with toys and baby gear. Plus they get to spend time with two people who are genuinely excited about doing things with them, instead of two people who are always trying to get them to take naps.
And we get to finally visit our buds in New York, some of whom we haven’t seen since before I got pregnant. So, everybody wins (except, maybe, J.P. and Deva).
New York, specifically Brooklyn, is very special to us. And why wouldn’t it be? It’s a brown, smelly place that costs a fortune. But it’s also where we met and fell in love and made some of our dearest friends and best memories, so we pretty much love everything about it.
Before the triplets arrived, Matt and I would get up to NYC once every couple of months. We told ourselves we’d be able to take some trips without “some trips” once the babies were a few months old. We almost got away with it, too, if not for a nasty case of RSV in December that landed Jem in the hospital the week before we were supposed to leave.
We made half-hearted attempts to get to NYC in February for my birthday, then in April for Matt’s birthday, but it never worked out.
This time, though. This time it’s on.
I’ve been waiting for something to happen this week to stop us from going. Last night our washing machine let out a hellish death rattle in the middle of its spin cycle and suddenly we had no clean clothes to pack for ourselves or the babies. That took a $900 chunk out of our non-existent travel funds and gave us heart failure. $900! That’s 20 boxes of diapers! A whole week’s worth!
But we forge onward.
This evening we’ll put all our dirty clothes into trash bags and throw them in the van with our dirty babies, then drive to Reston. We will unload our filth into to J.P. and Deva’s sleek and immaculate condo. We will wash our clothes and our sons and try not to think about the moldering front-load washer in our laundry room giving off a slightly sulphuric smell.
We will not think about our dogs, who are probably sneaking off to poop in secret places all over the house despite having a dogsitter there.
We will not think about the unpaid medical bills. The grass that needs mowing. The roof that needs to be replaced. The heat pump that’s on its last legs. The looming daycare expenses. The maxed-out credit cards. The fear that we will never get ahead on any of it.
Instead, we will think about the great meal we will have at a restaurant we’ve wanted to try for years. The first night of uninterrupted sleep in months. The sunset over Manhattan that we’ll watch from a rooftop across the river with our long-lost crew, like it’s 2008 all over again.
We will think about our babies. A lot. And we will probably cry because our hearts are aching for them. And also because we are drunk.
And on Sunday we will drive back to Reston, hungover, broke and happy, and relieve the two angels who have given us this weekend, and scoop our boys up in our arms and feel their squirming, solid bodies and smell their sweet mustiness and fight the urge to devour them whole because we’ve missed them so much. And we will realize that no matter what, we are the two richest bastards on the planet.
That, or we’ll spend the weekend stuck in traffic. I’ll let you know either way.