Jen's Column / 5.24.06

Hello everyone! The column that's running in today's paper would actually be of no interest to you. It's a big debate about whether Rochester has worthwhile activities for families and children and blah blah blah. So I'm reprinting a column I wrote in March. Enjoy! :)

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It sounded so promising. “Pamper yourself with a home spa night,” the magazine invited. “Relax, renew and rejuvenate in the comforts of your own home.” It outlined all the steps necessary — an indulgent bath, a facial, a manicure and pedicure — for “two hours of bliss.” I was in.

I announce to my family at dinner that Mommy will be having spa night – and I am not to be bothered until 8 p.m.

“OK,” my husband says, a smirk on his face. “Good luck with that.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t need luck. I just need two hours to myself. And besides, the kids haven’t given me a second look since he came home from work. They won’t know I’m gone.

“Luxuriating in a relaxing, aromatherapy bath” is first on the agenda. So I run the water, pour the lavender oil, light the candles. It’s almost perfect — but I’m missing one thing. I dash downstairs to get my fuzzy bathrobe.

Thirty seconds later, I return to the bathroom to find my sons, ages 3 and 6, stripped down to their grundies. “No, no, no,” I assert. “Mommy is taking this bath.”

Begging (the 6-year-old), crying (the 3-year-old) and whining (both) ensues. Not to be swayed, I usher them out and lock the door.

I ease into the bath to the soothing Celtic sounds of Enya… and the not-so-soothing sounds of two children pounding on the door and screaming, “I want Mommy!” There’s the sound two small children being dragged down the hall by my husband… and then it’s quiet. Ah, serenity.

I try to read my magazine, but the pages get wet and stick together. I try shaving my legs, but remember that soaking in a tub littered with little pieces of hair and shaving cream grosses me out.

I move on to the facial. Smoothing the cucumber-melon gel onto my face, I think, “This is nice. Calming. Peaceful—” But my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of 3-year-old fists on the door accompanied by the words, “I need to go potty!”

“Go downstairs,” I counter.

“Noooo! I want to go in THIS bathroom!”

“Go downstairs!” I yell back. “MOMMY IS RELAXING. I’M BEING CALM AND PEACFUL! I AM HAVING SPA NIGHT!”

Once again, my husband comes to the rescue. Silence is restored. And it’s on to the mani/pedi. I file. I condition. I’ve just started painting when a piece of notebook paper slides under the door. “Let me in,” demands a 6-year-old’s handwriting. “I wont tel Bergen. It’s a sekrit.”

On the other side of the door, a conversation starts: “Daddy said ‘no talking to Mommy, Christian.’”

“I’m not talking, Bergen. I’m giving her a note.”

“I’m telling!”

“I’M NOT TALKING TO HER!”

There are sounds of a scuffle. “He hit me!” and “I did not!” are thrown in with a “Mommy! Help me!”

I sigh. They win. I surrender.

My next spa night will have to wait until bedtime… 2008. It’s going to take some time to recover from this one.