We don’t have any family in town. A babysitter would be too expensive. And what if something happened to the girls while we were gone? Plus they’re so young. And even though flying with them is no joyride, I truly cannot stomach the thought (as irrational as it may be) of getting on a plane without them.

“You have to do it,” my sister insists. She means get away with Joe and without the girls. Easy for her to say. Her kids are ten years older than mine and her husband’s entire family lives within a two mile radius of her house. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s paid a babysitter. Her children see their aunts and uncles and grandparents on a weekly basis, whereas my kids know the UPS guy better than most of their non-nuclear relatives.

So when my sister-in-law offers to drive fourteen round-trip hours to spend a few days with our daughters, Joe is online booking a hotel room faster than you can say “complimentary continental breakfast.” He wisely chooses a spot a quick two hour drive away, so factoring in the free babysitting and the fact that the girls are now old enough to wipe their own bottoms and operate the remote control, I’m out of excuses.

I’ve got to tell you, I’m ambivalent. What will we do all day? (“Have sex!” Joe informs me cheerfully.) What if I can’t relax? (“You’ll drink more wine,” he suggests.) What if the girls are sad and miserable? (“We won’t be there to see it!” he roars. When he sees my horrified reaction, he quickly backpedals. “They’ll live. Juli can handle it. It’ll be good for all of us.” Hrumph.)

Three weeks later I’m sprawled out on delicious ten-zillion thread-count sheets that are luxuriously wrapped around the Ugg boots of beds. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, or maybe it’s eight-thirty at night. Who knows and who cares? I haven’t filled one sippy cup, nuked a single dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget or chanted a rousing chorus of “clean up, clean up” all glorious day. My watch sits in a dish on the bathroom’s cleaned-by-someone-else marble vanity, because I have nowhere to be but where I am. I’ve been rubbed with hot oil and warm towels, watched an entire uninterrupted, R-rated movie and let’s just say that when holed up in a locked room for hours on end, it turns out Joe and I have no problem finding something enjoyable to do.

We stayed for three glorious days and I fell in love with my husband all over again. The girls were fine. Aunt Juli appeared unscathed—although it was sort of hard to tell as she blew past us, waved goodbye and peeled out of the driveway. Best of all (and I’m not proud of this or advocating thievery in any way) there’s now a handy “Do not disturb” sign hanging on my bedroom door. I just wonder why we didn’t think of that sooner.

I’m squished into a tiny bathroom stall at our health club with my two precocious daughters when the older one spots something irresistible.

“Mom, can I have it, please?” five-year-old Sophie begs, pulling the beautiful-to-her, faintly aromatic piece of waxy artwork from its wall-mounted sleeve and making a delightful discovery in the process. “There are lots of them! Sash, you want one?” she offers kindly, handing a duplicate to her three-year-old sister. “They’re bags! We can put all of our makeup and lip gloss and stuff in ‘em!” It is at this point she discovers that the rose motif is a multi-sensory experience.

“Sasha! Smell it!” she screams with glee. “It smells like perfume!”

“Can we have them mommy, can we? Can we? Please?” they plead in unison.

“Sure, okay,” I mutter, stuffing them into my gym bag. Well they are complimentary. “I’ll give them to you when we get in the car,” I add, not about to broadcast my children’s obvious fascination with feminine hygiene paraphernalia.

“But mom!” Sophie says suddenly. “What if someone has to puke?” This from the kid who’s stolen every air-sickness bag from every seat pocket in her vicinity on every flight she’s ever been on, with nary a second thought for any subsequently queasy passengers.

“They can puke in the toilet,” I tell her, shuffling them out of the stall. (Of course I don’t explain what it really is. The kid’s five. She’s got enough to worry about.)

“I’m going to make mine into a puppet,” Sasha announces in the car.

“I’m going to bring mine to school for show-and-tell!” Sophie one-ups her.

Note to self: Stop overspending on birthdays and holidays. Who needs a Wii when you’ve got a barf bag filled with Sweet & Low packets, a handful of straws and a half dozen sporks? Maybe we’ll get to take that vacation next year after all.

Since no one wants to actually work at work, we must find ways to quietly amuse ourselves that suggest diligence and can be accomplished online. The “Blog” of “Unnecessary” Quotation Marks is the best time-waster ever. The “comments” are priceless. Enjoy!