Imagine this: three hours of quiet time: no phones ringing, no emails to answer, no kids to tug on your sleeve, or call mommy mommy mommy over and over again.
Yes, I’m talking plane ride.
People without children can’t really understand it: how for some of us, the best part of the trip is just getting there. The peace, the impossibility of anyone barging in, or even being able to contact you.
This weekend, TMOM sent me on assignment to Orlando, Florida, where I am spending a few days at the spectacular Waldorf Astoria, Orlando, and crashing the girls getaway weekend won by a mom from Miami and her two friends.
I’ll write all about it in the coming weeks, but for now, I’m talking about what it was like to be alone on a plane, to not have to pack crayons, or gobs of snacks, or activity books. To arrive at my hotel and check into my room all by myself, and not be nagged to head straight to the pool, or to Disneyworld.
Do I miss my kids? Sure. I even miss my husband. And sure, it would be nice to be here, at this five star hotel with him. But the truth is, there is something incredbily liberating about being alone in a plane, in a hotel room…. in being by myself on a trip.
When my kids are with me on vacation, I’m a mom on vacation. When it’s my husband, I’m a wife, or part of a couple. On this trip, I’m me. I’m a journalist — it even says so on my room bill.
Of course, as the guess of the City of Orlando Convention and Visitors bureau, I’m me (full disclosure) all expenses paid. But that doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t been just me in an awfully long time. And I kinda like it.
For just this one trip, I’m enjoying that I’m not traveling mom. I’m traveling me.