A Mama’s Retreat

I do my best worrying in the car on the few occasions when I’m driving somewhere alone. I usually turn the radio on, not to enjoy the music, but instead in an attempt to drown out the To Do list that floods my thoughts. I do my best writing in the bath, although the writing rarely makes it from the scribbles in my mind to coherent sentences on a page. Perhaps the stillness of the tub brings clarity to my thoughts, unlike the forward motion of the car that propels them.

I found myself in the bath today, self-prescribed medication after a day that began with a 17-month old tossing and turning in the very early hours and ended with my shadow self bursting out in annoyance at the 4-year old\’s \”tidying\” efforts – efforts that found me sitting in the boys\’ bedroom closet at 7:15 this evening, huffily rehanging and refolding their many costumes. \”Re-\” is an imprecise prefix. There was no \”re-\” about it. The initial efforts had clearly involved shoving all costumes, a smattering of toys, and a few dirty clothes to either side while the coat hangers\’ naked, bony frames hung above.

Snow days, such as we had today, unfortunately skew my perspective. Sitting admidst the chaos, I may have unwisely and dramatically verbalized the way I was feeling, grouchily complaining to my sweet little boys, \”All I do is make meals, do laundry, and tidy up, and then do it all again,\” to which my beautifully literal six-year old may have responded in confusion, \”But you work, too, and you write, and you do things with us.\”  His comments centered me and gave me reason to pause. \”I don\’t write anymore,\” I said, as much to myself as to him. \”You write books!\” he declared. \”Well, I\’d like to one day…\” was my reply. The moment passed as Dan walked in and the tidying resumed, but the conversation stayed with me.

Come 8:05, I\’d retreated. The older two had been in bed for half an hour, and the youngest had at last nodded off. Dan had transferred the latter from the darkness of our room, where he\’d fallen asleep nursing, to the darkness of his own.

I\’d retreated to the lemon-coconut bubbles, to the rose vetiver face mask, to the quiet, to the stillness, and to the clarity of my thoughts.

I contemplated my retreat, thinking about the very definition of retreat – something to do with leaving, escaping, going back. As I discovered via Google minutes ago, retreat has its origins in the Latin retrahere, meaning \”pull back.\” Another definition occurred to me, however. What if I reimagined the word as re-treat? After all, wasn\’t I re-treating myself to luxuries I seldom find anymore? I began thinking about other re-treats I\’ve made recently. On Saturday, I retreated to a cafe to re-treat myself to an hour of sipping coffee, nibbling a croissant, and revising a paper for a friend. Before that, I\’d retreated to my classroom to re-treat myself to an hour and a half of uninterrupted planning time. Later, I\’d retreated to my favorite chair to re-treat myself to a book.

We think of retreats as escapes from the routine: writers\’ retreats, yoga retreats, company retreats. In the case of a 38 year old woman leading a full life of teaching, parenthood, and retidying \”tidy\” closets, a retreat isn\’t an escape. Instead, it\’s quite the opposite: a return to the little luxuries that matter and make the full life complete – a re-treating of the beautiful solitude of bubble baths, lattes, and writing.