I don't know how it started again, but I'm sneaking back into the house after a night out. Just like a rebel teen, I quietly unlock the door and slip off my shoes so as not to wake anyone. I'm not proud of this. I do however realize that now that there's a baby sleeping in the house I'm whispering again and closing my bedroom door. I'm conscious of what time my phone is ringing and telling my friends to speak softly when it's late. Instead of feeling shorted I remember and romanticize the similarities of living at home when I was a teen and living at home now with small children.
When I was a teen I had a very full extracurricular life. Somehow I always had a friend to rescue or an event scheduled past my curfew hour. To coordinate these affairs it takes a ninja like determination to slip in and out of the house.
The window of time where you are not responsible to someone is really short when you become a parent. Think about it. Your entire childhood was full of opportunities to get in trouble. Or at least be responsible for explanations if something broke or was missing.
Then, hopefully you lived away from home at some point. The window was cracked open just enough to let a good sliver of light pass through. And it feels good. You're making new shadows on walls no one will ever discover. No one to answer to if something breaks. No one can chew you out but yourself when the phone bill comes. You can spend your grocery money on shoes if you like. You don't even have to feel someone else's angst if you live by yourself. But you realize that you are responsible to and for yourself.
I am a parent now. The sitter is here. The choice to be in adult environments as opposed to being asleep in my bed has been made. No coughs, grade school projects, or dishes require my attention. So...quickly, get cute. Grab keys and slip out while you can. Then hurry home to enjoy a little of that good old peace and quite that only exist when babes are sleeping.
I don't know how it started again, but now I'm sneaking back into my house after a night out and getting in trouble for things. It was me who gave the juice box that ended up on the floor, sandwiched between the bed frame and the wall. There it landed in the corner. Drop after sticky drop filled the most delicious pool for ants. Spiritedly, they organized a march from the exterior world, through a strip of old seventies molding, right across the underside of my son's pillow then down to reach the hot spot. I discovered my mess before caffeine or shower on the way to my morning kiss. I leaned forward to greet the warm soft cheeks of my son's face and saw a black spec move in the peripheral My mama senses were acute to suspicion even though my body was barely awake. Hardly dressed for weight training, I lift him up to reveal the line of horror. Who brought this on? Should I scold the boy who drunkenly let his juice fall out of sight? Or take the blame and outlaw juice boxes forever? I'm the adult. I guess I'm busted again.
There is something really beautiful and funny about the challenge it is to get out or away from the job of being someone's parent. By the time I have time to reflect on it, I'm sure these nights will be some of the best memories in my catalog.
Coco Fausone has been writing online for three years and is an expert in child care and baby products. To find more information about daddy diaper bags and first aid wallets visit her site at ubcaccessories.
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