one small step for a normal person. one giant leap for my crazy ass.

Just nine months ago I decided that we (my family) would never leave the house again. The children would never breathe unventilated air, always wonder what trees might look like on the other side of dusty glass, and only know of other "people" from the books we lovingly read them (Hello? They've got to get some culture somehow-- and I'll be damned if they're ever watching television). See, the outside world has germs. Germs kill babies. And I like my babies. A lot.

Eventually a therapist counseled me into the germy dangers of the world. We set goals as to when I would let people visit and take the babies to a public place. Like the mall. Or the park. Effing terrifying. But I did it. I got better. I stopped running from approaching hands and luring senior citizens.

"Are thems twahens?"

"Nononodon'ttouchthemnotsocloseOHMYGODYOU'REKILLINGTHEM!!"

Maybe this puts some perspective to the fear of vacationing. Far from home. Where nine months ago I set up camp and committed to a lifetime of Little Ceasar's home deliveries. It's not that I feared vacationing germs-- these days I'll lift a paci from the toilet to plug a crying mouth. It's being far from comfort that I fear. Far from safety. Where I know what to do when they cry. In a giant toolbox of baby-coping accessories. Where my sanity lives.

Brandon's parents invited us to their condo in North Myrtle Beach. I immediately shut down. Fear. Of. Being. Far. From. Home. My brain reeled. Nowaynowaynowaynowaynoway. He suggested that maybe he could go without me. Give me a weekend off. Do we have to go there, dear reader??? I can see you shaking your head. Tisking. Okay, I won't discuss the conversation further-- but the outcome was, of course, a voice a sane reason admitting that a horrible idea was now forgotten. Weeks passed. Nowaynowaynoway. My mother encouraged me. You should go for them. You should go for Brandon. NowaynowayIwilllockthedoorsandforceeveryoneintothecloset. Not happening. Brandon and I discussed it again. Maybe if we left at night? Maybe the babies would sleep? Maybe we wouldn't internally combust upon leaving a twenty mile radius of our house? Somehow, some way, I gave a conditional yes. The condition being that I could opt out at the very last minute.

We set out at bedtime. The girls slept the entire way (there and back). They woke up not screaming and clingy but almost, well, excited. Wha? Why isn't blood pouring from their ears? How are they smiling? Happy? How do I not feel crazy? Who am I? Where am I? Oh yeah, I'm at the beach. Dude, someone get me a beer.

The vacation was actually really awesome. The girls had a blast. Mimi (B's mom) was in heaven with her grandbabies and Pap Pap (B's curmudgeon) was complaining less than usual. It might have been the greatest weekend of his life. Layla had a beautiful friend to share toys and ear kisses while Pap Pap scratched her head and mumbled sweet nothings. Or maybe sour nothings.


We took the girls down to the beach only once-- after we wrapped them in every blanket we could find. Hell yes, it was freezing. Did that stop my Pisces hubbs from swimming in the ocean? Hell no, of course not. Beach walkers were clad in turtlenecks and sweaters AND STILL SHIVERING, and then there is Brandon. Swimming trunks, beer in hand, nipples threatening to slice anyone within a three foot distance.


Did I mention that our condo was a baby-funhouse? The decor being eighties-beach-chic, complete with mirrored walls, glasstop tables and loaded with pastel beach paintings (nothing says coastal vacation like seagulls flying over a pastel sunset. on pastel walls. behind pastel chairs.) The highlight was definitely the glasstop coffee table. We could throw away the thousands of dollars worth of plastic junk in our house and invest in one of these. That's all we would need. I wouldn't even have to watch them. Entertain them. Feed them my sad, tired blood. The coffee table would be the answer for everything. Where are the kids? How do I get them to stop crying? Where will they sleep? Who's going to feed them? All arrows point to the coffee table and the two children that have been supporting it for the past ten hours.


The point of it all is, yes, I survived. WE ALL survived.

Next phobia on the list: Walmart. Yeah, I see no reason to rehabilitate that one, either . . .