Sleeping in—an unknown luxury, a
fairy-tale fantasy that inevitably dissolved in a shower of Cheerios and the
wiggles and jiggles and messy, precious kisses of my preschoolers. Sleeping in
existed in a different solar system—or perhaps in a different galaxy far, far
away.
But those thoughts evaporated as I lay in a bed I
wouldn’t have to make, savoring the ecstasy of a quiet—yes,
quiet—sixteenth-story hotel room. My husband had already left for his
conference, and I indulged in forbidden pleasures: a cup of real coffee (double cream) in
bed, steaming hot from the first mellow sip to the very last; a television
program in which most people already knew how to count to ten; and a long,
sinful bath filled to the top, with no Mr. Bubble or rubber duckies in
sight.
After bathing, I ignored my ratty plaid bathrobe
hanging on the hook. I didn’t decide what to wear. Instead, I wandered around
the room, carefree and content as Eve in the Garden of Eden, unhampered by
diaper bags, car seats, nap times or must-have blankies. I pondered how I would
spend an entire day without children or Happy Meals. Intoxicated with my
liberty, I forgot my mother’s advice to always close the drapes and faced the
room-sized picture windows. The panoramic view of city streets and smaller
buildings far below dazzled my eyes, my soul. Embracing the endless azure sky, I
sang, “I’m free! Free!”
“Chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk!” A dragonfly the size of a
60s Cadillac suddenly hovered by the window. I hit the floor as if attacked by
enemy fire, yanking the bedspread (too late!) across my naked, prostrate form.
The traffic helicopter pilot waved. Then he and his mighty machine swept off to
corners of the universe where other derelict mothers in need of reform might
lurk.
I pulled the blanket over my head and groaned.
Mortification stuffed my throat like a giant spoonful of crunchy peanut butter.
I felt a hot strawberry flush from my toes to my eyebrows. Not counting God,
only my husband and my doctor had seen me in the buff; now a nameless helicopter
pilot in
Him and who else? I grabbed my heart and my ratty
plaid bathrobe and edged toward the window. Praise be. No Blue Angel precision
jet formations screaming into view, scouting for the Miss Thunder Thighs
competition. I closed the drapes, then donned a pair of khakis and my
highest-necked sweater. I started my make-up routine. No blush needed
today!
I didn’t dare turn the radio on as usual. Couldn’t
bear to think of that friendly pilot’s
“Great view over the city,” he’d
say. “Why, I can see clear to next Tuesday. No accidents downtown, but hey,
cover up—er, buckle up!—for safety, and slow down for those curves!”
Or maybe he’d give a few cute weather tips: “Sunny, but chilly. You don’t want to
die of exposure, baby. Dress in layers. At least one.”
“I’ll dress in layers,” I muttered as I headed for
the parking garage and my minivan. “A trip to the mall and a fist full of Visas
will make this Wild Mama feel all better!”