One Night Stand

The life of a modern working mom (and really, is there any other kind of mom?) can feel like a series of daily marathons. In fact, one of my favorite pastimes is to scare the young, childless single girls out there by regaling them with the sordid tales of a typical day in the life.

Like the fact that most mornings, you wake up in the sixes to make sure there's time to get yourself and the kid(s) brushed, dressed, fed and out the door (only to skulk into your first meeting five minutes late with your coat still on). Expecting to get a workout in? Then sister, you'd better plan on getting up in the FIVES (but don't feel bad if you can't...most of us learn to live with the muffin top after awhile).

And then there's the p.m. grind. Walk in the door and proceed directly to dinner, bath time and bed time routines, which should take you straight through to 8:30 or 9 p.m. (at which point you might think to take off your shoes). That's when your "me time" finally starts. That is, if you consider "me time" to mean choosing between the dirty dishes in the sink, the four baskets of laundry clogging the hallway, the pile of urgent-looking mail OR the "round two" of work that awaits on your handy laptop (Oh, hey, it's not that bad. After all, you can pair most of these activities with a backlog of Tivo'd shows and assorted high-caloric options from your pantry).

Usually these little narratives are met with gasps of horror and admiring exclamations like "How ever do you do it?" and "What's your secret?" And as a matter of fact, I DO have a secret. Want to hear it?

Okay, here goes. Once a week, I sleep with another man.

It happens like this: By the grace of God, 8:30 p.m. finally rolls around, and I manage to get Jack bathed, wrestled into pajamas and cajoled into picking two books we can read together in bed. Then I dim the lights, snuggle under the covers next to his sweet, warm little body and spend the next several minutes whispering stories in a soft, lulling voice until...

Sorry, nodded off for a second there.

You get my drift. At least once a week, the routine manages not only to put Jack to sleep, but to knock me out as well. Ben, good man that he is, has learned not to wake me, so I usually startle to consciousness on my own at about 11 p.m., only to realize that, DAMN, it happened again! And now it's time for bed.

The other night started out much like this. The lights were dimmed, and I had just finished my heavy-lidded rendering of "Froggy Learns to Swim." I was on the fast train straight to slumberland when Jack turned to me expectantly and said,
"It sure is late, mommy. And I've got a big day at school tomorrow."

Wait a second. I've seen When Harry Met Sally. I think I recognize this move. Is he KICKING ME OUT OF BED?

I attempted to hold my head high as I slid out of his bed, hair awry, whispering "I love you! See you tomorrow?" as I felt my way, mole-like, through the dark and out the door.

And then it occured to me.

I finally had a tale those young, single girls could relate to, after all.