Red Room Where the Writers Are

We do it to ourselves, you know. So convinced that our families can't run without our magical presence, we control, micromanage, enable, and ultimately martyr ourselves upon the altar of motherhood. But even saints and martyrs need a break now and then.

A couple of weeks ago I booked a tiny third floor room in a Victorian bed and breakfast at the Jersey shore for one night only. I was giving myself exactly 24 hours in which to commune with the surf, read in bed, drink wine by myself, and maybe even get some writing done. But as the day approached, my college-aged son began getting flu symptoms, and my second son, a senior in high school, quickly followed his brother down Influenza Lane. And based upon their symptoms and several phone calls to the pediatrician's office, the diagnosis was clear: swine flu.

The night my oldest hit 103 we drove down to Rutgers to bring him home. For two days I watched both boys anxiously for signs of improvement, not so much out of maternal love (and if you're reading this, you know I'd die for you guys) but out of utter selfishness--would I get my day at the beach or wouldn't I?

By late Wednesday they were both on the mend. As they stumbled around the house unclean and unshaven, leaving trails of damp tissues behind them, I frankly couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. But isn't a mother who runs out on two kids sick with H1N1 rather, uh, swinish, to say the least?

Thursday morning, my planned day of departure, dawned bright and sunny, and the beach was calling me like a siren. Both boys assured me they were better. My husband assured me he could take care of things here. Thus far my youngest, the 16 year-old, was disgustingly healthy. So I should go, right?

I must admit that it was with nary a qualm that I hopped into my car yesterday morning. And as the miles rolled behind me, I sent up happy little prayers of thanks. I ate a picnic lunch on the beach. I climbed a jetty and just watched the sea. I curled up in the window seat of my little room with my laptop and sipped a nice chardonnay. I stayed up late reading, and ate a gargantuan breakfast cooked to my specifications. Life was good. In fact, life was damn good.

Until I called home. "Hi, guys," I said cheerily. "Where's Dad? He's not picking up his cell."

That's cause he couldn't pick up his cell or anything else, as he was in bed running a fever. So I came home to the third victim of H1N1. Oh, and a broken washing machine. And I've spent most of today going back and forth to the laundramat  and carrying food to those in the household unable to help themselves. And my tiny gem of a vacation is already a distant memory.

It's one that will have to sustain me once I take to my bed. I figure I've got about 12 hours before it hits.