Once upon a time, like, six months ago, I had fantasies—some of which I won’t describe here.
Now I have a fantasy: checking into a hotel of my preference, alone. I know that I am a backpacker at heart but for that specific fantasy, let’s assume the location of the hotel doesn’t matter—only the amenities do.
I want the biggest room, with huge windows letting plenty of light in (it’s sunny in my fantasy). A king size bed or bigger, with fresh and crisp white sheets and at least four or five pillows of all sizes. A cozy spotless bathroom with a tub and plenty of fancy spa products. Two towels, the softest and fluffiest kind. A bathrobe—never actually tried one on but I have the feeling it could be nice to hang out draped in one of these.
After spending at least two hours alone in the bathtub (yay, bubble bath!), I’d turn the TV on and watch something silly, like one of these talk shows on TLC or A&E. Or maybe a comedy. I will have the remote in one hand, a drink in the other—hot sugary tea or maybe a fancy latte—and I’ll feel like I’m getting dumber by the minute. And it will be okay.
Then I’d order room service. The fattest, most delicious and hard-to-make food. I will have several kinds of foods actually, and I will savour each bite, each flavour down to the last crumb (yes, this hotel has really good bread in my fantasy). Best of all, I won’t have to do the dishes or clean up—I would simply put the tray by the front door once I’m done.
I will call for a massage. Not the dirty kind—a real full body massage performed by a therapist. From my scalp to my toes, from my aching neck and shoulders to the tip of my fingers. It would be an hour-long massage and I wouldn’t need to worry about making it home on time for Mark’s feeding or anything, because remember—I am alone.
Completely alone and free.
I don’t have to startle each time I hear noise that sound like a cry. I don’t have to bump against the garbage full of dirty diapers. I don’t have to take a five-minute long shower because someone downstairs is hungry and needs a bottle. I don’t have to whisper because someone has just passed out on the couch. I don’t have to comfort anyone, change anyone, feed anyone, burp anyone, entertain anyone, hold anyone.
I have plenty of time and I can take care of myself.
I can linger on the hotel’s balcony, have a smoke and watch the sunset. I can finish the two novels I started six months ago. I can pluck my eyebrows, wax my legs, apply a facial mask and pop a zit—oh come on, as it you never do it! I can slowly drift into sleep and take some time to stretch in bed when I wake up.
I don’t need to rush, don’t need to get shit done, don’t need to put someone else’s needs before mine.
I know, kids are great and motherhood is the adventure of a lifetime. Blah blah blah.
But after six months of non-stop mothering with no break whatsoever, I wish I could have some me-time and recharge my batteries.
I need to take care of myself too.
This is just a fantasy, I won’t be spending anytime alone in a fancy hotel anytime soon. But seriously, the thought of it is tempting.