“Solo” is defined as “done as one person alone; unaccompanied.” This is not a word in the Mom Vocabulary. Maybe moms have solo trips to the grocery store. Or solo trips to work. Occasionally, we have solo trips to the bathroom. But, solo trips that are actual vacations? Unaccompanied vacations? Vacations done as one person alone? That’s impossible.
Mamas, say it with me: Nothing is impossible.
Recently, I had a birthday. A BIG birthday. But, since this is Chattanooga Moms and not Chattanooga I’m Actually Old Enough to Be a Grandmother, I won’t disclose my age. I had my son late in life. And, I had some amazing vacations prior to becoming a mom. But, for the past 11 years, every vacation has revolved around Disney or amusement parks or hotels with lazy rivers and arcades. Every vacation has been packing a car with all the luggage and all the snacks and all the necessary toys. Or packing luggage to check at the airport and luggage to carry onto the plane. Maneuvering the plane aisle with a kid and my carry-on and his carry-on then playing Overhead Compartment Jenga. This is our travel life now, isn’t it, Mamas? This is what a vacation is 99% of the time when you have kids. But, that’s not what I’m here to talk about today. I’m here to talk about the other 1%. That small, glorious moment when you do the impossible. You pack one carry-on bag. You buy one ticket. You book a room with one, very large bed. And, you go. Alone.
I took a solo vacation. It changed my outlook on travel and possibly my outlook on life.
Now, before I get into it, let me preface this by saying I went a little overboard. This is not a judgment on how you travel or how I believe you should travel. This is simply me saying that for a brief moment in travel time, I lost my mind and pretended like I was independently wealthy. I flew first class. Granted my flights were short and that’s probably the only first class I’ll ever be able to afford, but I bought the ticket. You know who doesn’t ever play Overhead Compartment Jenga? People in first class. Because more space just magically appears. The flight attendant addressed me by my name before I even told her what it was. I had a beverage waiting when I took my seat. There was even mood lighting in the first class part of the cabin. Apparently, it’s an entire mood that requires its own lighting. When we landed, I took a car to my hotel. A 5-star hotel. There were velvet chairs and chandeliers and orate fireplaces and not one arcade game or cereal dispenser in sight.
It was so gorgeous and the customer service was so impeccable, within seconds of arriving I almost cried.
Standing right there at the concierge desk, I teared up. Because I was surrounded by luxury and beauty and complimentary sparkling beverages and charcuterie boards and I was completely, gloriously alone. I absorbed every second. I didn’t have to worry about kids’ menus or where I was going to get chocolate milk for bedtime or if I packed the Nintendo charger. I strolled through artists’ markets and ate slow, leisurely meals and took long bubble baths. They were four of the most wonderful days of my life.
And, on the last day, it hit me. I was ready to go home.
There was still a heaviness in my chest as I headed back to the airport that last day. Headed back to my normal life where there is no mood lighting or room service or housekeeping or bubble baths every day. It wasn’t that I was sad to be returning. It was that I felt strangely heartbroken that I had waited this long. Waited this long before I allowed myself to experience something so special. Notice that I said the word “allow.” Because isn’t that what we’re programmed to think? Am I allowed to do this? Am I, as a mom and an employee and a co-parent, allowed to declare something so outlandish? “I’m doing this. I’m giving this to myself. Live without me for a week. You’ll survive. I need this.”
Yes. We are allowed. More than allowed. In fact, no one on this planet is more allowed than moms.
