impermeable membrane
Today I'm not alone. Today I'm writing this while not only the baby sleeps upstairs and my husband sits on the other side of the couch, but my sister and dad are in the other room talking about, god help us, how much money pharmaceutical companies (and the government) may have made from selling vaccines around the world.
But last weekend, if I can reach back and brush against the memory of how that felt, last weekend I was alone. Last weekend I had like twenty literal hours of work to do between Friday night and Sunday, and so I booked a hotel room. I never managed to go away while I was writing my book, the need for a retreat never lining up with the ability to take one, so this was a bit of a rain check for that, too. I booked a room in the fanciest hotel in town.
I packed up my laptop and notebooks and several pairs of soft pants, and Tanner and the baby dropped me off before dinner Friday. I checked in and took the proffered water bottle and glass of champagne, even though I haven't had a drink in two years. I took them up to my room, and as soon as I walked in the door and was alone, I started sobbing.
I'm not one for mom guilt, I believe it's crucial to prioritize myself at least some of the time, but I don't even see that as separate from the baby. I thought of that this morning as he crawled over my body under the blanket in bed, a favorite morning game of his—Mama, go under with me, put your face under!—and the way he crawled over me, it didn't feel like we were separate bodies. There's almost no part of each other's bodies we don't touch.
So when I prioritize myself it doesn't feel like that, it feels like leaning towards one half of our shared life and shared needs or the other, the way I sometimes prioritize my own comfort or work or hunger. Sometimes his needs win out and sometimes mine do, but it's all part of the same dance. The hotel room wasn't like that, though. The hotel room was for me and he wasn't there. It was the first time we'd be apart since well before the pandemic.
I couldn't tell if I was crying because of guilt or relief or loneliness, anticipating missing the baby and Tanner for the next two days. Maybe I was crying because the room was fancy, and that felt so nice and so unnecessary, so too-much. The bath robe was heavy like a blanket, the bath tub was big enough for me to soak almost up to my chin. I walked around the big room crying. I took a sip of champagne and cried.
It didn't last too long. It kept feeling extravagant and unnecessary and amazing. I kept feeling guilty, it only ended up being maybe 12 hours of work, and I wasn't even so strictly diligent, but I can't even imagine how much work that would've been at home in the same home as the baby and all that other half of my body's needs.
Even while I was crying, though, I knew that I needed it. Parents, buy your partner a night alone in a hotel. Even if it doesn't have a tub, even if you pack up your own bathrobe from home. It wasn't even the sleeping, I still woke up by 7, so perfectly trained. But hotels have always been amazing to me, the pristine space impervious to any of life's regular needs. No dishes to wash, no laundry lurking just out of frame. Just whatever's in the room, trashy TV or your phone or 12 hours of reading draft grant applications. Give the parents in your life the gift of that impermeable membrane of hotel walls and a few miles from home, and the assurance that you'll take care of things yourself.
If you cry, and you figure out why it was, let me know.
Thank you for reading! Please pardon any typos or sentences that fade out half-way, they're what let me send this out free and weekly. If you enjoyed this newsletter and want to share it, or were forwarded this edition and want to subscribe, the link is tinyletter.com/jaimealyse. You can also follow me on twitter here, and when my book is done and ready to be preordered this is where I will tell you about that.