The Husband and I left The Kid at home last weekend in a last-ditch attempt to save our marriage by taking a trip to Asheville. Ha, no actually the trip was due to our being almost timed out of a nonrefundable hotel stay we had planned for SM’s wedding in November, back when I was unceremoniously thrown on bed rest. TK kept us in Atlanta for that autumnal voyage, but I would be damned if he’d get his say again this summer! Therefore, in preparation for our trip (and because I was tired of being used as a chew toy), I weaned TK (actually am still weaning myself, as I sit here typing with cabbage leaves in my bra–don’t ask) and typed out a multi-page instruction list for The Mom and Dad to read and religiously abide by. Bibles were held, oaths were taken–it was a big deal. Then Saturday morning arrived. The Husband futilely attempted to teach The Mom how to operate our streaming Netflix account with the wii remote as I watched, shaking my head. Then we kissed TK goodbye and were off.

As we arrived at our first stop–the Dunkin’ Donuts five minutes from our house–the sweet strains of Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” filled the car and I choked a little on the snot ball forming in my throat. A few extra munchkins helped push that ball down (that’s what she said), and TH saved the day by blasting some Louis CK for our drive. A few hours and wrong turns later (I had warned TH about making me navigator; it’s not like I come from hardy technical stock–see above), green mountains appeared in our windshield, and I found myself venturing from the “sad” bag of my now-permanent Mixed Feelings Luggage Set to the “excited” one. We finally arrived in downtown Asheville and I emerged from the car, wiping fingernail clippings from my lap because I’m classy and Mama’s gotta multitask. Then we hit a Mexican spot and I had two–count ’em, TWO!–hard drinks over lunch. Asheville Lemonade doesn’t drink itself–just saying.

The rest of that day and evening were my reminder about the thin line between “drinking is fun!” and “alcohol is actually a poison.” The next morning, the Lord’s Day, I awoke with a hangover for the first time in over a year. This called for room service (as parents, we now awake in time for breakfast on vacation) drenched in copious amounts of coffee. Then it was off to the Biltmore Estate for the Required Educational Component of our trip. Plus, they have a vineyard there. Just saying.

I drank less that night, which definitely made matters less fun (TH and I are considering seeing other people) but also allowed me to feel human the next morning. And as we reversed our outbound trip from two days prior…okay, I tried a new Google-suggested route and we got a little lost in Deliverance land, so sue me…I felt that cord that had stretched from my heart to TK’s on Saturday begin to pick up a little slack. Relief settled in, quickly replaced by anxiety over the realization that nothing will ever be easy again. Not on the emotional side of things at least, which is where I usually (and often, unwisely) pitch my tent. From now on, whenever the three of us aren’t together, I feel incomplete. And as the world would have it, that absence occurs often. I remembered my confident proclamations, pre-TK, of all the adult vacations we’d take without him. (There’s actually a pretty sizable Pre-TK Confident Proclamations File, in case your were wondering. I know–huge shock.) And just to be clear, I’m not taking that particular proclamation back. All joking aside about our marital bliss (chill, we’re seeing Dr. Phil, it’s gonna be okay), TH and I need these getaways. Life is a story, and sometimes we need to be retold the part about why we’re good together–his memory is short, and mine is selective based on mood. So we won’t sacrifice the QT. However, that heart-connecting cord still stretches every time. And I know it never stops, but as U-Hauls and trips north and my own story have taught me, the cord doesn’t break–it only grows stronger. And gives us everything in the world to come home to.