“That” being vacationing with the girls, as a single mama. Crikey, it’s enough to make you miss the old days, no matter what the old days looked like. Neither woman nor man was meant to vacation with offspring as the sole caretaker—at least not for longer than three days.
I am single mama; hear me whimper. Or roar at my children as they lick the metal bar on the Tilt-a-Hurl.
They had a mostly good time. I think. When their mean mommy wasn’t yelling at them to come out of the pool, get closer to the lifeguard, stay out of the sun, eat at least one item outside of the Deep Fried food group.
I had a mostly exhausted time—with glimmers of goodness, moments of laughter, certainly. But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I didn’t do enough, wasn’t the best mom I could be, wasn’t the mom they needed to have on vacation with them. That we needed this trip. That we didn’t need this trip. Conflicted emotions.
I like to think that time will scour off the rough edges of our memories of the trip, leaving behind only a sea glass glow.
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