Late Night Ramblings After the Kids are Asleep

And here we are, at the start of the second half of our trip. As Aaron put it, “The second half won’t look like the first half, but it will be equally beautiful.” 

When I returned to the trailer and opened the door, I was overwhelmed by the sweetness of the space, already so full of my favorite memories. The walls are covered with photos of friends and family from home, the kids’ drawings, homeschool posters, and a small handwritten note some campground friends left on our trailer before they moved on. It is my second-favorite smell in the world (the first being my parents’ beach house), and it swallowed me whole. I cried because it was just so stinking sweet, and because Aaron won’t be with us for this next stretch. And also, because something is ending, even as something else is beginning. I already know he’s right, though: this next part will be beautiful in a different way. 

This is so strange y’all, and until now I think Aaron is the only person I’ve said this out loud to. But do you remember the book (and movie) Room? It’s horrifying. A woman is kidnapped and imprisoned. She becomes pregnant by her captor, and she raises her child entirely within the confines of a single room. It’s a story about terror and survival and trauma, and of course they escape, because they must! 

But here’s the part I’ve never known what to do with: there has always been a tiny, secret part of me that envies the contained-ness of it. Not the violence. Not the fear. But the sealed-off world. Just a mother and her child. No one else needing anything. No one else laying claim. No schedules, no opinions, no constant small separations. Just us. 

I know how wrong this sounds. I know it’s not freedom; it’s captivity. And yet. There is something in me, something very primal, that wants to close the door and keep my children inside, safe and wholly mine. I don’t want to share them. I realize this is awful, and in reality, would be absolutely horrific…but surely other parents can relate just a tiny bit? It feels adjacent to that strange “cute aggression” phenomenon, wanting to bite or squeeze the tiny humans we love. Just put them in our mouths a little bit!  

Now I’m a week into living in a trailer with just me and my kids, and as I sit here with this thought, I can feel it in my body. Obviously without the horror. Obviously without the coercion. But still…contained. Small. Mine. 

When I planned this adventure, I had not identified the similarities but here they are. And strangely, I experienced something totally different when Aaron was with us. 

At the same time, there are half as many adults doing all of the things, which means I am working my ass off constantly. Yesterday, while doing laundry, I realized I was lingering absurdly long in conversation with the campground staff because they are the only adults I’ve spoken to in days (aside from phone calls with Aaron and my mom). I am absolutely reminded of why being a stay-at-home parent was so very hard! 

What I am pleasantly surprised by (and part of me fully expected) is that I actually know how to do this. The trailer. The systems. The problem-solving. I was nervous about managing it without my very handy counterpart, but I seem to be holding it together…largely because Aaron left me the most detailed, loving lists, generously sprinkled with notes like “you’re doing great” and “pour yourself a glass of wine.” He’s acting as our ground crew, making campground reservations and has made himself completely available, which so far has mostly meant FaceTiming him so I can say, “I’m about to stick this tube into this hole. Yes?” and asking where the heck he put things in the storage compartments. 

So yes, as evidenced by my ramblings, the feelings are clearly mixed. But, at night, when the kids are FINALLY asleep, I become super aware of how small our world has become. How everything we need is within arm’s reach. How far away the outside feels. I lock the door, not really because I’m afraid, but because I can. The sound of my children’s breathing fills the small space and when someone turns over in bed, I feel the whole trailer jiggle a bit. Nothing else is required of me. Nothing else can reach us. 

It’s intense. It’s exhausting. And it’s…kind of delicious.