I’ve never been a spur-of-the-moment kind of gal. Hell, until two weeks ago, the only spontaneous things I’d done recently was ordering takeout from Nacho Mama’s on Taco Tuesday, instead of cooking at home. Before that, there was this one time I bought a no-name brand of diapers rather than Pampers because that’s all that was available in a moment of desperation. But given that everything in my life recently swirled into a tsunami of chaos with a huge milestone approaching, a little change was in order.

Time to shake it up.

Live in the moment.

Book a two-week vacation at the tail-end of summer on a moment’s notice and ban electronics of any kind.

That’s right. For fourteen days, me, my husband Hank, and our twin five-year-old boys Parker and Logan did the unthinkable – we unplugged. Literally disconnected. No television, email or social media of any kind. We’re talking vacation Leave-it-to-Beaver style. Crazy, right?

What’s crazier is that I’ve loved every single minute…until I realized two weeks goes by pretty damn fast. Especially when you’re avoiding reality.

So, here I am. Standing on the deck of our rental house, watching the waves crash against the Wellfleet coastline, dragging my feet to return to the land of the hyper-informed. A place where I’ll be eternally tied to my laptop or company phone, attempting to manage a demanding career while also being an attentive wife and mother. An impossible feat even for an overachiever.

Kicking and screaming might be the only way to get me in the car.

“Ready to go?” Warm arms wrap around me from behind.

“Is that a trick question?” I ask, leaning back against my husband’s chest, silently begging him to stand here a little longer. Once we get on the road, there’s no going back. Tomorrow will come and my boys will begin a new journey—kindergarten. A step toward their independence and the start of my grey hair. I’m tempted to join the twins in their protest to leave and sprint down the beach buck naked chasing seagulls.

“It’s cliché but the boys are growing up so fast.”

Hank squeezes me a little tighter. “It’s going to be okay, Sam. We’ll fall into a new routine. In a few weeks, you’ll look back and laugh at how worried you were for no reason.”

Deep down I agree. The twins starting school shouldn’t be a big deal. I’ve known this day was coming since I heard their heartbeats for the first time, and I’m rational enough to accept they won’t stay little forever. Cutesy moments and complete reliance on mom have an expiration date. In some respects, it’s good. Independence, that is. I don’t want to raise the type of men who can’t take care of themselves or expects a woman to wipe their noses and asses. Still, it’s impossible getting my heart and head on the same page.

And that’s not my only concern.

No longer will my biggest problem be getting to daycare before it closes at 6pm. School age kids have homework, sports and want playdates. That I can handle. It’s all the other things…things I’ll miss that’s making me edgy. Parent’s get asked to attend school events during the day and volunteer. Those who routinely can’t get shunned by the moms who can, and end up with kids with low self-esteem. I fully plan to be as engaged as possible, but as my mentor recently pointed out, I’ll often have to choose between being a kick-ass employee and a loving mother. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all. I can barely find time during the day to pee as it is. Add these obligations on top? Failure of some kind is imminent.

So, while my wonderful husband might be right, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to pretend and put off the inevitable as long as possible. Denial is bliss.

Hank kisses the top of my head. “The longer we wait, the longer we sit in traffic.”

The man’s got a point. Finally, I cave and yell to the twins. “Come on, boys. Put your clothes back on and get in the car.”

Covered in sand, we pile into our silver minivan that felt like a parenting rite of passage when we bought it, and get on the road for the hour and a half trek home. Surprisingly, we move at a good clip, breezing through Eastham and Orleans in record time. Too soon, we’re passing a sign indicating our hometown is less than forty-two miles away. Hank laughs as I groan.

“Back to reality,” he muses. “Speaking of which, have you turned your phone back on?”

I shake my head. “I’m not ready.”

The first few days disconnected were hard. That itch to find out what was going on at work and with friends. The compulsion to post pictures of our trip in real-time. It’s addicting. After weaning myself off technology, I’m not psyched about it ruling my life again.

“Better to do it now, don’t you think?” he suggests.

Reluctantly, I power up my phone and immediately pull up my work email. Ping after ping of incoming texts has me changing course, starting with a recent message from my neighbor.

Cindy: Where are you?

Her text is accompanied by a picture, both sent just after 8 o’clock this morning. I enlarge the image and blink at it once, twice, twenty times. It’s a photo taken this morning of all the neighborhood kids—minus mine—in front of the school bus. My anxiety level shoots to def-con 500 if that’s even a thing. With my heart racing, I quickly type out a response.

Me: I hope to God that’s a joke, Cindy!

With my finger about to hit send, the low battery warning flashes and my phone dies.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I scream, smacking my phone.

“Sam?”

“Gi…g…gimme…gimme…” I stutter, lifting my head.

My husband looks at me with concern. “Babe, are you okay? You’re pale,” he says, placing his hand on my forehead. “And sticky.”

I shake my head and slap his hand away. “I need your phone. Gimme your phone.” I basically jump out of my seat, patting down his pockets. I come up short and check the cup holder. “Where is it? Where’s your phone?”

“I left it at home, remember? I didn’t want the temptation. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Fuuuu….dge!” I course correct aloud. What I really want to yell is Motherfuckingshitballs!

Hank tries repeatedly to get my attention. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“My phone died. That’s what’s wrong!” I glance back at the kids, happily watching a movie. Blissfully unaware that their organized, always on-top-of-everything-mother has royally screwed up.

“You’re scaring me, Sam. What the hell happened?”

I turn back to my husband and suck it up. What other option do I have?

“So, uh…remember when we, um planned this trip?”

Granted, Hank had no hand in planning this vacation. He literally walked through the door one night to me in tears, and I told him we were going. He didn’t tell me I was overreacting. He didn’t object. He simply took in my emotional state, gave me a hug and rolled with it. If the curious, yet cautious side-glance he’s just given me is any indication, he’ll do the same now.

“Yeah. Sure. Why?”

Good man. I make a mental note to reward him at a later date with a guy’s weekend or a blowjob.

“Is something wrong with the security deposit for the rental? That place was spotless when we left.”

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” he questions.

I swallow my pride, choking it down like shards of glass slicing my ego, and shift to face Hank.

Here goes nothing.

“IthinkIfudgedupthedatesandwemissedthefirstdayofschool.”

Silence.

Hank tilts his head to the side. “Come again.”

“IthinkIfudgedupthedatesandwemissedthefirstdayofschool.”

Hank shakes his head. “One more time. Coherently.”

“I think I fudged up the dates and we missed the first day of school.”

“What?!” He pumps the breaks as the word leaves his mouth.

I immediately go on the offensive. “It’s not totally my fault. You’re their parent, too. You didn’t have to go along with my suggestion. Could have said no. Double-checked the dates. Safety in numbers, you know?”

He mulls this over as we climb the Bourne bridge. “Okay, let’s stay calm. Start from the beginning.”

I nod. “The beginning. Okay.”

It was the day from hell. I’d arrived at work half hour late, snot crusted on my shoulder and totally unprepared for a presentation to the executive team because the boys had been sick. Instead of reviewing the presentation like I’d planned the previous night, I spent the evening cleaning up puke. And I totally botched the meeting.

A team member approached me afterward. She did her best to ease my mind with words of wisdom and encouragement. It was comforting…for about an hour. That’s when my manager—a woman in her late forties who is admittedly repulsed by children—shut the door to my office and reamed me out. She then explained that I had some changes to make if I wanted to be successful. This translated to four things. Work longer hours. Be more available off-hours and open to travel. Make work my priority.

I was so worked up and overtired that I lost it. Brain-to-mouth filter? Gone. I explained that my priority would always be my family, and that while my presentation had sucked ass, I was a good employee. I shouldn’t be penalized for having a life outside of work. My manager had the nerve to tell me I wasn’t cut out for corporate life anymore.

I. Was. Bullshit.

Without blinking, I offered my resignation, which she surprisingly refused to accept until I’d really thought it through. Mandating that I use my untouched vacation time to do some “soul searching”. I had to bite my tongue from pointing out that slackers don’t have vacation accruals left this time of year; insubordination was a mark I didn’t want in my file. If I was no longer going to be employed at the company where I’d built my career, I wanted it to be on my own terms.

Instead, I waited until she left my office and had a mini-meltdown. Not available enough? Screw her. She could shove her ideals and my company-paid cell phone up her ass. Out of spite, I planned a two-week vacation and vowed to show her what unavailable really looked like. I pulled up the calendar, noting the first day of school, and planned my time-off accordingly so that we’d return home the day before. Meaning today, not yesterday. I specifically remember thinking how weird it was for school to start on a Tuesday.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Hank patiently listens as I recount the details, ending with the text from Cindy. When I finish, he nods and looks to me, and then the road and back again. “It’s fine. We’ll call the school when we get back. No big deal.”

“No big deal?” I squeal. “This is a very—”

“Wait.” He cuts me off. “Why is your phone dead?”

Forget what I said about the blowjob.

“How does that even matter? Our boys are missing their first day of school. The bus. The chance to make new friends. Focus!”

He completely ignores me. “I saw you charge it last night after dinner.”

Is he seriously not letting this go?

“I don’t know, Hank. Must not have been fully connected.”

Eight years of marriage teaches you a lot about someone. Like when they’re lying or withholding information. In this case, that’s me.

“Were you on your phone?”

“Whaaaat?” I do my best to downplay his inquisition. Squirming doesn’t help my case.

Hank smacks the steering wheel. “You little rule breaker.”

“I have no idea—”

“Hypocrite!” he accuses. “I knew you wouldn’t last.”

I jump at the accusation that is one-hundred percent spot on, and pull my knees underneath me. “Fine. I was on my phone, okay? I couldn’t sleep last night. You were snoring and my mind was racing.”

“Whoa. What do you mean you couldn’t sleep? You said that was the best sex of your life. You passed out before I did.”

“It was and I did, but your snoring woke me up. I didn’t go online. I just read a book. I swear.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters.

“Really?” I say, my voice escalating. “Because if I had been on the internet, I would have seen the text about today being the first day of school and could have gotten us back in time for the bus.” I glance back at the boys, thankful for their headphones. “Technically, I didn’t do anything wrong. It was after midnight.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Wake me back up for round two,” he says incredulously, as if it’s the most obvious answer. “So, were you lying?”

“For God’s sake, I was not lying. It was amazing. You were amazing. Now, can we focus on the real issue here? What are we going to do about school?”

Satisfied, he grins. “Check your purse.”

“For what?”

“The charger.”

The charger, of course! This is why I keep him around. Frantically, I dig through my purse that’s more like a carryon suitcase. Lipstick. Hand sanitizer. Coloring books and crayons. Magazines. A romance novel. Extra clothes for the kids. No charger.

One by one, I put the items back, pausing when a white envelope falls from the pages of Bon Appétit and lands on my foot. I bend down to pick it up and audibly wince upon reading the recipient: Little Munchkins Afterschool Program.

Oh, come on.

I sag into the seat and bang my head against the padded headrest, feeling more destined than ever for a padded room.

Six weeks ago, I put this envelope in my purse with the intention of stopping at the post office. How could I have forgotten? Cindy was adamant that spots filled up quickly. Our small town doesn’t have many options for afterschool care, and I’m not keen on getting a nanny. Sending in an early application was my only hope of reserving slots for Logan and Parker.

I’m on a freaking role.

Hanks reassuring hand lands on my knee. “Did you find it?”

I shake my head.

“What’s that?” he jerks his chin toward the letter in my hand.

“Nothing. I need you to go faster. I need you to get us home.”

“Mommy, my tummy hurts,” Parker groans.

I twist to face my son, doing my best to keep cool. “Honey, we’ll be home in like thirty minutes.”

“But it hurts bad,” he cries. “I gotta poop.”

“Can you hold it?” I plead.

“Sam, five minutes ago you wanted to stop for ice cream. If we’ve missed it, we’ve missed it. There’s no rush.” Hank squeezes my leg, gently putting me in my place. “We’ll stop, buddy.”

Hank pulls off the next exit, cutting off an older woman with glasses and a severe bob driving a purple pick-up truck. She flips us the bird and speeds away as we turn into an old gas station. Right about the same time an unpleasant odor fills the minivan. Parker wasn’t kidding.

I crack the window and then jump from the car, only to wait for the automatic door to glide open at a snail’s pace. Convenient my ass. I should have asked for the automatic starter instead. But the door is nothing compared to the wrestling match I’m having with Parker’s car seat.

“Here, let me get it.” Hank reaches back with one hand and easily sets Parker free.

Showoff.

We bolt inside and head straight for the snug restroom that contains two stalls. Naturally, the slightly larger one that would accommodate two or more people, has a clogged toilet. Perfect. Out of options, we wedge into the small stall that has no lock.

“Did you already go in your pants?” I ask, carefully lining the seat with strips of toilet paper. Emergency or not, the skin of my kid’s backside is not touching this thing.

“Not yet,” he whimpers.

At least there’s that.

“Last piece buddy. Are your pants down?” I turn and come face-to-face with my adorable boy’s quivering lip. I’m too late. The smell hits me right before I see the evidence hit the floor. Shit. Why does so much of parenthood revolve around shit?

“I’m sorry,” he cries.

“It’s not your fault, Parker. I’ll clean you up, okay?”

I bend down to inspect his pants. Completely unsalvageable. If only I had my purse with the extra set of clothes. Or a phone to call for help.

Breathe, I tell myself, and immediately regret the moment I do. What the hell did this kid eat?

“I need to go more.”

I quickly clean his legs and backside, and then place him on the toilet, earning a gold star for not throwing up. While Parker does his business, I contemplate what to do. He can’t walk out of here naked from the waist down. I drop my gaze, taking inventory of the clothing I could possibly spare.

It’s a short list of one.

I slip out of the tank top I’m wearing underneath a sleeveless, cross-over top that’s now nicely showcasing my cleavage. At least I wore my best push-up bra.

I hang the shirt on the hook behind me and shove my hands into my back pocket, feeling my phone. Funny, I don’t remember grabbing it. Must be wired into my subconscious. Ironic when you think about it. I purposely disconnected to bond with my family, yet being connected could have prevented the disastrous events of today. I take it out and glare at it, wishing this inanimate object could feel my wrath. Useless piece of metal.

“All done, mommy.”

As I lean forward to flush the toilet, someone enters the bathroom and slams into the door at my back, sending me and my phone flying forward. My arms extend, hands landing on the wall behind my son without knocking him from the porcelain throne. My phone isn’t so lucky, ping-ponging from side to side of the toilet seat before plummeting to its death in a bowlful of feces.

“Noooooo!” I reach down, stopping myself right before my hand plunges into the number-two abyss. “Gaaaaaaah!”

Do I fish it out? Do I not? It’s just poop, right? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Just poop? What sane person has ever had that thought? Should I be concerned that’s my natural reaction? Because willingly sticking one’s hand in a bowl filled with shit is so. Not. Natural.

After twenty-seconds of debating, I channel my inner-MacGyver and decide on flushing the toilet to rinse it clean. As far as cellphones go, it’s big. There’s no way it’s going down the drain. I think. Fingers crossed, I push the lever and pluck it from the swirling water.

Guess what? It’s dead. And no amount of rice in a bag will be able to bring it back.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can we go now?” he asks.

“You got it little man.” I help Parker into my tank top, practically shower in the sink, and toss my phone in the garbage on the way out.

“Hey, mommy?” Parker yanks on my hand. “I’m excited for school.”

Twist the knife a little further.

“Mmm-hmm.” I plaster a smile across my face as we exit the building.

Outside, Hank leans against the passenger side door. Arms crossed. Smug grin. Holding a black cord and beaming with pride. “Found the charger.”

There are times in life when you realize the thread that’s holding everything together is ridiculously fragile. Weighted down by emotional snags, it’s only a matter of time before the thread frays. Standing here, I wonder if this is the moment it finally snaps.

“Want me to—” Conversation halts. I follow his gaze down to my cleavage. “Were you wearing that the entire time?”

Fun fact: men in the presence of boobs cannot process any other information. Such as their son wearing their mother’s shirt.

“I’m driving,” I announce, walking past him and slide behind the wheel. “Everybody buckled?”

Three yeses and I burn rubber back to the highway.

“Everything okay?” Hank rubs my shoulder.

“Nope.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” Could I be any shorter?

“Oooookay. Where’s your phone then? I’ll plug it in.”

I laugh maniacally. “The bottom of a waste basket back at the gas station.”

He’s quiet for about a mile before asking, “Why is your phone in a trashcan?”

“Because it wasn’t working after it fell in the toilet.”

Smart man that he is, he stops asking questions. I take the opportunity to reflect. Is my manager right? What if I can’t do it…work and succeed at motherhood? If I can’t get the first day of school right, how will I handle the tough stuff. Like puberty. Bigger kids, bigger problems. And there are two of them!

Suddenly, I’m overcome with the need to make this right. I flick the turn signal for our exit, and then veer right instead of left, taking us in the opposite direction of home.

“What are you doing?” Hank asks.

“Getting the boys to school.”

Hank sighs. “Sam, they are in no shape to go to school. You…we,” he quickly amends, “aren’t in any shape to be seen. Let it go.”

“Let it go?” I whisper-yell. “How can I let it go? I’ve messed up one of the most important days of their lives, not to mention made a horrible impression with their teachers. The school district. Our neighbors.”

He lovingly places his hand over mine. “No matter when they start, it’ll be their first day. We’ll make tomorrow special.”

I shake my head. “Please. I need to do this.”

He considers my request, finally telling me, “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

We pull into the school, scoring a front-row parking spot. As we dash to the front door and wait to be buzzed in, I wonder if our luck is changing. I’m convinced the answer’s yes when a woman with a kind face lets us inside.

“Can I help you?” Her voice is just as sweet.

Here goes nothing.

“This is going to sound crazy, but I mixed up the dates and didn’t realize we were missing the first day of school until we were on the way back from vacation this morning. I know it’s late, but can the kids please go to their class,” I pause to look at my watch, “for the next ten minutes? I’d hate for them to completely miss everything.”

She regards me and then looks over the children, likely wondering what rock we crawled out from under. The woman looks at me and smiles kindly, taking my hand. “Oh, dear. You haven’t missed anything. School starts tomorrow.”

“What?” I gasp. “But…my friends took pictures. Their kids were all posing in front of the school bus.” I think back to the text. I only saw it for a few seconds but I’m positive it said something like, “Ready for their first day.”

The woman drapes her arm around my shoulder and walks me toward the main office with my family following close behind.

“I’m Mrs. York. Have a seat while we straighten this out.”

I break down in tears as she hands me the schedule. In black and white is tomorrow’s date. I should be happy. After all, I was right. I didn’t ruin their first day of school. But I did ruin the last day of our vacation. And now I’m literally crying in the principal’s office of all places.

“Mistakes happen all the time,” Mrs. York tells me. “The good news is you didn’t their first day. Tell me, what street do live on?”

“Maple Street.”

“Ahh,” she says, digging through the bus schedule. “I think I understand what happened. Do you know Mr. Ferguson?”

“Yes, he lives a few houses down. We’ve only met him a few times.”

“Mr. Ferguson is a bus driver for the school district, mainly for the high school. One of his neighbors was nervous about her daughter taking the bus, so he got permission to take the kids and parents in your neighborhood for a trial run today so tomorrow wasn’t so overwhelming.”

Trial run?

Days ago, Cindy stopped me on the sidewalk. She kept going on and on about how glitter was the herpes of arts and crafts, because it never goes away. The conversation turned to the first day of school, but by that point I’d already tuned her out; I had enough on my mind. I left to her saying she’d “see me there.” I had no clue what she was talking about, and I didn’t ask.

I break down further, confessing fail after fail. Today. Enrollment for Little Munchkins. My phone. Work. To her credit, Mrs. York listens to it all. Not once does she look at me with anything but understanding as I describe the guilt and incompetence I’m experiencing.

“Let me tell you story.” She plucks a framed picture from her desk and hands it to me. “See this? I accidentally sent my son to his first day of kindergarten wearing his sister’s shirt. It was my first day as Assistant Principal, and I admit I was more than a little frazzled.” I look closely at the upset boy with a floral collared shirt. “Then there was the time I volunteered to chaperone his second-grade trip to the zoo. I was so worried about keeping the other kids together, I lost track of my own child. Poor Ben ended up swimming with the penguins.” She laughs and leans forward. “But you know what? He survived. We both did. That’s all any of us mothers can do.”

Listening to her experience I feel lighter. “Thank you for sharing that.”

She pats my hand. “Were you able to attend the classroom tour?”

“No, we were on vacation.”

“Well, you’re here now. Let’s have a look.”

We follow her down the hall, stopping to glance in the library, gym and lunchroom. I couldn’t be more grateful when we reach their classroom.

Mrs. York stops outside the door, producing a camera I hadn’t noticed. “Family photo?”

“You want to take a picture of us like this?” She cannot be serious. My boobs are practically hanging out and Parker’s basically wearing a dress.

“Trust me, one day you’ll look back on this day with fondness.”

I relent, because she’s the principal and I’m hoping she’s right. I’m also hoping her offer to speak with the head of Little Munchkins, who incidentally drives a purple pick-up truck, leads to enrollment for the boys.

I’m not holding my breath.

After inspecting the room, we thank Mrs. York, and finally head home to prepare for their real first day of school.

Hours later, after the kids are bathed, Hank and I tuck them in bed. I change into sweats and meet Hank in the living room where he’s relaxing in front of the television. Smiling, he pours me a glass of wine.

“You’re kidding, right?” I let him keep the glass. I take the bottle.

“I’m glad we took that picture.”

“How come?” I ask.

“They’re young. Do you have any idea how many things we’re going to fuck up over the years? We need to celebrate the chaos, not let it take us over.”

I shrug. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Maybe? Today could have been much worse, Sam. It’s not like we missed their birthday or a sporting event. Hell, they could have walked in on us having sex or found out Santa Claus isn’t real. This was nothing.”

Our momentary laughter is killed by the screaming behind us. In tandem, we turn, coming face-to-face with our sons standing at the bottom of the stairs, clutching their blankets in horror.

“Santa’s not real?” Logan squeaks out.

“What’s sex?” Parker adds.

I cringe and look up at my husband. “I’ll take mythical figures, you get reproduction.”

We swig our wine and walk the boys up to bed. It’s going to be a long night.