Exodus

/ sgudahl

Let me start off right now by saying I feel guilty for even writing this post. I feel waves and waves of guilt pouring over me as I contemplate my next few paragraphs. I am swimming in the guilt-ocean because on Mother’s Day I opened my Facebook page to an outpouring of motherly love and happiness over the various states of motherhood that the entire outside world felt like glorifying this past weekend. Maybe my lack of mommy-posting went unnoticed by everyone out there – but the honest to goodness truth is that what I wanted to post went so far against what everyone else in the universe was posting that I thought it might be wiser to just keep my mouth shut.

You see, I love my kids. I adore them. I would do all the things everyone always says they would do for their kids – would die for them, would do anything for them, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, insert cliche saying, overused phrase, etc.  I hope that 5 years of my endless posting of pictures and cute moments, and passionate love-filled blog posts will drive that point home for me. Because I didn’t do anything even remotely resembling good mothering this weekend.

In fact, I did no mothering at all. And THAT, my friends, might have been the best Mother’s Day ever. I know that this is borderline sacreligious, so I just kept that little truth nugget to my own self this weekend. But honestly – I love my kids 24/7 and spend time with them 24/7 and this was the first weekend in, maybe, ever, that Aaron and I went away by ourselves for two whole days and didn’t do any parenting whatsoever at all.

And it was amazing.

We checked in to the W Hotel in Minneapolis on Friday night. A valet took my keys, said, “Welcome Back to the W, Ma’am” and then directed a bell hop to take my bags upstairs for me. When we checked in, it appeared that I had won the Starwood Preferred Guest lottery because the desk clerk spent a good 10 minutes making sure I had everything I possibly wanted. A bottle of champagne was waiting in the room with a hand-written note letting me know how glad they were to host me this weekend.

Okay – pause button. What? Just? Happened? The last time a group of us stayed at the W, I put the reservation in my name, so I guess I racked up a lot of points or something because they acted like I was the Queen of England – me, in my denim capris, track t-shirt and flip flops. I even found a card on the table offering me $50 in room service free of charge for the weekend. Which, by the way, we took immediate advantage of. (Hello, 12 oz ribeye and lamb sliders, how very nice to see you.)

We’d planned to kick off our weekend away in style – we had tickets to see the Gear Daddies. If you know who they are, I don’t need to say anything else – point made. If you don’t know, well, I can’t explain it to you. Here, watch this. You probably still won’t get it. If you weren’t around southern Minnesota from roughly 1986 – 1992, you may just have to accept that you missed something amazing.

They played their 25th reunion show this weekend, at First Ave. If you already know about First Ave, then I don’t need to say anything else – point made. If you don’t know, well, go there. Today, tonight, this weekend, sometime…just go. Or go home and watch Purple Rain. Then you’ll maybe have some kind of idea.

I think somewhere around 10pm on Friday night it began to sink in. I was at First Avenue, listening to the Gear Daddies, holding hands with the boy I have known since we were in 4th grade, and I swear to absolute goodness, I felt so much more like myself than I have felt in centuries. My children were anything but on my mind – it felt like I was young again – truly young – and life hadn’t yet actually begun. I was blissfully unaware of everything around me for just a few short hours, and I just can’t tell you properly what that felt like. Billy Dankert sang Blues Mary with all the verve he could muster, Martin Zellar sang She’s Happy right to me and right through me, and I felt free and light and young.

Of course, reality came crashing back in when a lovely lady I will refer to as Drunk Amy spilled a large pink cocktail on me. She was a perfectly lovely person in her less-drunk state of mind; she had introduced me to her 35 closest friends as they staggered back and forth from our spot in front of the stage to the bar. Even when she spilled sticky grenadine-soaked something on my jeans, she was so NICE about it. “Sorry Sara! I did that! Oopsie! I can dry-clean your pants for you, if you want!” No thanks, Drunk Amy, but I do appreciate your concern. In fact, the boys are starting to play Little Red Corvette as their first encore and I am feeling so good right now, I don’t even mind the sticky shoes all that much.

Walking back to the W after the show, the Minneapolis skyline was alight in all her glory; we passed street musicians and patio bars and people laughing and walking together and enjoying the 65 degree weather. We rounded the corner on Marquette and the Foshay building looked spectacular. My phone had died long before, so a photo was out of the question. But I’m going to cheat and use this photo I found online – it looked like this – something we don’t see every day out on the farm.

On Saturday morning we sure tried to sleep in – we really, really tried. But several years of 5am wake up calls have set our clocks semi-permanently, I’m afraid. We were out and about and looking for coffee early. The Whatever/Whenever guy said he would bring a coffee maker to our room but we politely declined – it’s much more interesting to explore the city streets. 
We spent our entire Saturday cruising the cities, with no particular destination in mind. When we saw something interesting, we stopped. At one point Aaron saw the Duluth Trading Company, and we made a beeline inside. This company has the hands-down best advertising in Minnesota, and we were hoping to snag a few fun pics next to semi-inappropriate signs. I even bought something, just so I could have one of their paper bags to take home. We looked totally ridiculous trying to take pictures of ourselves next to mannequins with suggestive signage inside what is typically a very quiet environment, so I settled for this one:
When we got back to the room that afternoon, we settled into a movie while we waited for our fashionably late-night dinner reservation at Manny’s. The steaks are legendary, and there was no exception tonight. We ate in careful, savory bites, drawing out the deliciousness, casually ogling the $400 bottle of wine on the neighboring table. I thought the $80 steak was decadent – I can’t imagine spending a car payment on bottle of merlot. But the people around us behaved as if this was everyday food for them, so we did our best to act like we belonged there. 
Something else kind of wonderful happened, in tiny stages, throughout the entire weekend. I remembered what it was like when Aaron and I were just Aaron and I. Relating to each other without the constant interruption of children’s needs is something we have really missed. With no one to entertain and bathe and feed and worry about, we were able to just be. He held my hand everywhere we went; I had forgotten that he used to do that, We laughed like we hadn’t laughed in ages. Our conversations lately usually revolve around who’s picking up who, what we’re having for supper, and what activity which kid has on what day. It was nice to talk about everything else for change. 
On Sunday we decided to make our way home. The further we got from Minneapolis, the more familiar I became with my surroundings. City streets turned to highways, skyscrapers turned to houses turned to cornfields. I could feel the pulse of city life slowing and the easy comfort of the country seeping back into my consciousness. I was genuinely happy to see my three babies. For a few surreal hours I could sense the city experience on my skin even through the chattering of their stories, and I felt oddly suspended between worlds. But eventually it faded, and my identity returned as Mommy and Mediator, Counselor and Chauffeur, Chef and Sharing Police, the Reader of Stories and the Checker of Homework.
It was a very Un-Mommy weekend, on the weekend devoted to motherhood. Waves of guilt aside, I had a really, really good time. I should have used my Facebook status to tout the virtues of my own mother, who grandmothered my beautiful babies while I made my weekend escape. Thanks, Mama. I really, really needed that. And I promise to pay it forward someday when my daughters need to make their own exodus.

Leave a comment