Five And A Half Hours Until Freedom

The rain slants sideways in the wind and though it's just 12:17 p.m., the Yankee candle on my windowsill emphasizes the gloominess of the day. I am down to the last two loads of laundry. The school books are put away. The three-year olds are upstairs making what I'm sure is a devastating mess of toys in my daughter's room. But I don't care.

I feel like I'm running away from home. I have makeup stashed in a ziploc bag and hair-care stuff in another. My blue jeans are clean and folded neatly, ready to slide into a suitcase. Speaking of which, I'm taking the big rolling one, though I'll only be gone two nights because I am taking my pillows, both the feather pillow and the long plush body pillow. A good night's sleep demands these pillows.

In yet another ziploc bag, I have three books--Jodi Picoult's "My Sister's Keeper," and Anne Lamotts Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, and a guide to Seattle. I intend to sleep, shop, eat, shop, see movies, and roam the antique shops with a friend, shop, eat and then sleep some more. And read.

Only five hours and twenty-three minutes to go. Not that I'm desperately counting the minutes. No-sir-ee-bob. Not me. (At this very second, my 3-year old begs, "I want some more candy!" and the 5 month-old baby is crying and the t.v. is blaring and one of the twins is making a whooping sound.)