“Let Them Eat Cake”
(But Not Too Much)
Originally published in The Greeley Tribune, November 11, 2023.
Every mom deserves a pina colada or two while relaxing on a beach. Near Mezcalitos in Cozumel, Mexico. Photo/Stacy McCloud.
My first morning back home,
I went downstairs at 5:30 to make my
husband coffee to take to work
and eggs for everyone.
My eyes refused to open—
the harsh reality of being back
from vacation hit hard.
Moms:
We are the glue that holds our households together. We are chefs, Uber drivers, cheerleaders, dishwashers, maids, teachers, babysitters, coaches, nurses, therapists, healthcare providers, personal shoppers, stylists, administrative assistants, nutritionists, referees, confidants, private investigators, activity coordinators, prayer warriors, enforcers, alarm clocks, motivational speakers, janitors, personal bankers, sheriffs, bodyguards, terrorist negotiators, financial advisors, art directors, project managers, biohazard cleanup professionals, finders of lost things, and I'm sure I'm forgetting a few other crucial mom titles. And many of us have jobs outside the house.
It may sound cliché, but often we moms feel unrecognized and underappreciated. Like Elon's Tesla, we too must recharge our batteries in order to perform like a hybrid race car. But, honestly, there’s just no rest for the wicked.
My first girls’ trip longer than 3 days was with a friend to Cozumel, Mexico in October 2023.
I was fearful of returning to a family that had all but expired after being left to their own devices. My confidence level that they could survive without disaster in my absence was not at all confident.
As I thought about it, I wondered what their demise would be—starvation, dehydration, exposure to the elements? Would they survive 6 whole days without me? Would my animals survive? I imagined a myriad of fates awaiting my precious family. What would I return to, I wondered. I was deep in thought praying that I'd trained them properly to survive the situation at hand. Then, the pool boy arrived with my pina colada, and like the high tide heading back out to sea, I watched my worries sail away.
Laying poolside, relaxing in 85-degree October weather without a care or responsibility in the world, I drank another pina colada and began devising a strategy to get away more often purely for my own mental well-being (and let's face it, for my family's as well). How could I con them into sending me off by myself again?
Nighttime on a beach near Mezcalitos in Cozumel, Mexico. Photo/Stacy McCloud.
My first morning back home, I went downstairs at 5:30 to make my husband coffee to take to work and eggs for everyone. Since my flight landed late the night before, I was extra sleepy and used special care going down the stairs. My eyes refused to open—the harsh reality of being back from vacation hit hard.
I went to the sink to wash my hands, and when I pumped some hand soap, rather than landing in my hand as every time previously in my life, the soap shot me square in my left eye without getting any on the surrounding skin. It was a perfect shot that couldn't be duplicated if I tried a million times. I quickly put myself to rinsing my eye in the sink. For the first 10 seconds or so, it seemed fine—just an inconvenience. It started burning at 11 seconds with the fire of a blazing meteor, pulling screams from my body that yanked my husband from bed and down the stairs, all without his 320-pound body and size 15 feet touching a step. He maneuvered the steps like Peter Pan with grace and panache as if he had gossamer wings guiding his massive, muscular being.
He found me writhing on the kitchen floor, tank top soaked, hair soaked, face soaked, sitting in a pool of water dripping from my shaking body as I clutched my left eye and screamed. Looking back, I wasn't sure if I was trying to rub the soap out of my eye or rip my eye directly from my skull. He had no idea what was going on, and in my agony, my brain couldn't form any big girl words.
Upon discovering the problem that sent my family in a panic and jolted from their beds, my husband threw me in the shower—clothes and all—and jumped in with me, then he tried to help remove the hibiscus-scented antibacterial hand soap from my eye. I cried until he gave up on the task and just held me. Me, dressed in a tank top, underwear, and my UGG fur-lined slippers, and he, in his underwear and morning hair. Surrounded by such care and love, I nearly felt badly about the plan I was preparing to initiate.
So, here it is—my rough draft of a strategic plan to “get mom the girls’ vacation she so desperately needs.” However, I'm sure it needs some work to perfect it.
Phase 1:
Initiate the Stepford Wife phase: Go home and be a dream mom/wife for 4-6 weeks. Be the best version of you anyone can imagine, and then really exaggerate it.
Phase 2:
The Marie Antionette phase or the “let them have cake” phase. Initiate this phase around 3 or 4 weeks. Let them have cake (but not too much). Continue to spoil them, but gradually start adding backhanded compliments and slight nagging, such as “How'd you like that homemade devil's food cake, sweetheart? Is that your plate in the sink that didn't get loaded into the dishwasher six inches away?” By my calculations, within the week my family will begin joking about sending me away for a vacation (from me).
Phase 3:
The Misery phase or hobbling phase. Now that they're on their toes and wondering which version of mom/wife they'll get today, start hobbling them by leaving keys to the other vehicle conveniently in your purse when going to the gym to prevent them from leaving. “Misplace” all power cords so they can't call for help. Unplug the router and replace all remote batteries with dead batteries (or if your family isn't astute, just remove them all together). Admit to none of it with a guiltless smile on your face.
Phase 4:
I call this phase “The Linda Blair phase” or The Exorcist phase. The reason for this phase is that one cannot go straight to Sybil (of multiple personality fame) as the possessed often have bouts of normalcy. Keep them on their toes, wondering what's coming next. From beauty to beast, then back again. This is sure to result in a divorce or abandonment if not executed with a certain degree of balance and finesse.
Watch out for kissing iguanas on your next girls’ trip! Photo/Stacy McCloud
My hope is that this “plan” may ensure the future of traveling for any mom or wife. Maybe without resorting to such measures.
For now, I’ll sit back and put my plan into attack. For the love of my family, I will let them eat cake. But not too much.
Disclaimer!
Disclaimer!
The author can assume no responsibility or liability for any errors or omissions caused in the execution of this plan. The author makes no representations or warranties of any kind, implied or expressed, about the accuracy, reliability, suitability, or availability of the information given. The author cannot be held responsible for financial grievances, divorces, or abandonments caused by the execution of this “plan.” The author cannot be held responsible for any familial questions or concerns regarding the sanity of anyone who employs said “plan.” The author exhaustively expresses that the “get mom the girls’ vacation she so desperately needs” plan is delivered with the intent of declaring frustrated feelings of being unrecognized and underappreciated and conveying the utmost level of humor.
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