I am running away from home. Don’t try and stop me.

As far as my destination is concerned, I’m not all that picky. Some less-traveled European berg along the Normandy coast, some as-yet-undiscovered-by-tourists island where locals sit at brightly-painted cantina tables swapping stories. Or Morocco. Would I have to wear a burqha in Morocco? Just someplace where the passage of time is unimportant. Somewhere without schedules. And without laundry.

I’m not sure exactly which straw broke the proverbial camel’s back. Maybe it was the child who swore that he’d already unloaded the dishwasher, despite irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

Or maybe it was the shopping cart that rolled off the curb while I was putting groceries in the car, tipping over on its side, leaving two dozen eggs to hemorrage slowly on the blacktop…

…or the myriad cross-county trips in a vehicle with a broken air conditioner…

…or the fact that after an entire winter of complaining about the fact that the cold weather had rendered my garage-door opener  just that—an OPENER, and not a CLOSER, which meant that I had to get out of the truck, pull the release cord, jump up and grab the door and pull it down by hand (no small feat since there isn’t a handle on the outside of the door), and then upon returning home had to squeeze my fingers underneath the closed door and lift it all the way up, then fight to get it back on track so it would stay open for me to back the truck in (inhale)—after all these months, the release cord BROKE, so now the garage door opener is just a big black box o’nothin’ hanging from the ceiling…

…or the dog who managed to wrap her chain around me before bounding toward the yard, nearly severing my leg at the ankle, or the senile cat who’s taken to jumping up on the kitchen counter and drinking out of my water cup, knocking it over in the process.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that Mason not only learned to say “SHUT UP!” this week, but also how to turn doorknobs, which is oh-so-convenient since I didn’t realize when we built the house that we were going to have another child so I picked the interesting, egg-shaped doorknobs that don’t fit inside the plastic keep-your-child-from-opening-doors covers; OR the fact that I have had it UP TO HERE with packing a school lunch every morning for the 6 year-old who is neither a sandwich person nor a macaroni-&-cheese person, nor a—well, you can pretty much just fill in that blank with anything other than candy, because I have yet to find out what kind of person she is; OR the fact that the 14 year-old has tricked-out her trademark eye-roll by adding a Clint Eastwood-style upper-lip sneer; OR the 10 year-old who agreed to play with the 6 year-old on the condition that she pay him in Easter candy….

You know I could go on….

In the tumultuous years between junior high and high school, I planned to run away several times. We had a heavy, solid wood double garage door that sounded like a freight train when it opened, so I’d prop a tire underneath it before I’d go to bed, thinking I could just slide underneath unnoticed. I always changed my mind. But once I was so mad at my father that I actually snuck down to the garage with my packed duffle bag, only to find the door closed and locked, the tire propped up against the wall. That was the end of my runaway aspirations.

During a summer trip to Europe, I ditched my school group and hopped the train across Germany to visit the blond Bavarian guy I’d fallen in love with in West Berlin. There was something so liberating about being on my own at that point in my life. The next morning, my roommate called to tell me I’d better get my butt back to the hotel, because she was running out of things to tell the chaperone about where I was.

I read a short story once. I mean, I’ve read more than one short story, of course. I’m just referring to one in particular. I think it was in my Good Housekeeping magazine. My mother keeps renewing my subscription. I guess she’s hoping one day maybe it will elevate my housekeeping to the realm of “good,” or at least, “okay.” So far…notsomuch. But I really love the magazine, so I hope she doesn’t give up on me just yet.

I was going somewhere with that…Oh, yeah—short story. Got it. Anyway, it was about this woman who runs away from home. She checks into a hotel, orders room service, goes to the spa, watches whatever the heck she wants on tv without anyone complaining that Suite Life on Deck is on and it’s an episode they’ve only seen 17 times. She actually—get this—puts her dishes out in the hallway for someone else to wash when she’s through with them. And she gets to eat her own dill pickle spear without three sets of forlorn eyes begging her for it. And she can have a glass of wine at lunchtime because she’s not going to have to drive to pick anyone up from school. Her family calls to ask when she’s coming home…and she tells them she doesn’t know.

In the end, of course, she packs her bags and catches a cab to the airport, where I’m certain she must have had a few lemondrop martinis before boarding. She probably convinced herself that her family would have a renewed sense of appreciation for her when she returned, that they would start putting their own dishes in the dishwasher and feeding the dogs without having to be repeatedly reminded over the course of 3 hours.

And I’m pretty sure she was right…for a day or two.

Up until last June,  I hadn’t spent a night away from my kiddos in nearly 14 years. Hadn’t woken up to a child-free house, hadn’t gone a day without somebody calling me from across the house to come wipe at least one body part. So when one of my writing buddies asked if I was going to the Writers’ League of Texas annual Writers and Agents Conference, I couldn’t help but feel that twinge of exhilaration at the thought of going off on my own for a few days. A hotel room. Alone. No noise. Nobody calling me to come wipe anything.

So I went. And it was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that when it came time to pack my bags on Saturday night, I was a little sad. I missed my family terribly—I called home several times a day just to hear their voices. But I could have used one more day—just one more day of quiet. I spent a few hours that last night just sitting on the bed doing nothing. It was blissful.

Back at home the next day, I was greeted by an offensive-line worthy rush at the door. There were some shouts of “MOMMY!!!” and “yea!!!” and “I missed you so much!” There were eight arms wrapped around me and a couple of sets of feet trying to climb up me. And somehow I managed to hug all four of them at the same time while dragging them to the couch for some much-needed snuggle time. It’s amazing how much you can miss somebody—a bunch of somebodies. And we haven’t even gotten to the ‘welcome home’ I got from The Hubby yet. And we’re not going to, either.

So maybe I don’t want to run away. I mean, these people might drive me crazy at times, but I love them. Fiercely. I’ve got a pretty sweet gig. Not a day goes by that they don’t prove once again how much God must love me to have planted me squarely in their midst. And while I realize I need some alone time now and then, for the most part, whatever I do is better when I do it with them.

But if I suddenly turn up missing, you might want to check Starbucks….

My thought for the day:  Almost nothing is so bad that a little dancing won’t help. Unless you’re as uncoordinated as I am, in which case you could end up stepping on a stray Little People princess, causing you to almost drop the 30-pound-bag-of-water-with-a-ferret-inside that you’ve been struggling to keep on your hip during a particularly lovely little salsa number, at which point you might overcorrect by putting forth increased effort to lift the aquatic-ferret child, throwing your back out and resulting in a conversation with your children about why they are never to say certain words, even if Mommy accidentally says them in cases of extreme stress or pain. Hypothetically speaking, of course….

What’s on my to-do list: You’re probably surprised that someone like me has a to-do list. That’s okay, because I don’t. What I do have is a somewhat tenuous grasp on a vague category of events that need to take place and which will only take place if set into motion by me.

A few of these things at the moment: email Dallas Theater Center about tickets for Death of a Salesman; call propane company–again–and remind them that we’ve had this little chat about them being highway robbers many times before; quickly open washing machine full of wet towels that have been there since Monday and pour in a big slog of white vinegar and re-run the load; work on manuscript; go pick up heartworm medicine at the dog vet; call the horse vet to come check out Ri’s potentially-new horse; —you know what? As much fun as this little exercise is, you and I both know that it ain’t gonna happen. So why don’t I just quit pretending and move on….

What I’m listening to:  The Song of the Yodeling Veterinarian of the Alps. Okay, so I’ve been wanting to do a little “what I’m listening to” for a while now. And in truth, I’d hoped to be listening to something more indicative of my spirit, like Famous Blue Raincoat (Leonard Cohen) or Solitary Man (Neil Diamond).  Maybe some Dvorak, although I find it maddening to actually type “Dvorak” because of that whole missing “zh” thing.

But the soundtrack of my life on this day is—as is so often the case—Veggietales Ultimate Silly Songs. It’s not a total loss, though. I may not get to anything on my to-do list today, but when it’s all said and done I will be able to say that I learned to play Song of the Cebu on the piano. That, at least, is something….

“Oh, I’m so sorry….”

No, that’s not what people say to The Hubby when they find out he’s married to me. It’s the response that often follows the sentence, “My child has Down syndrome.”

I’m not here to chastise anyone. I mean, before I had my own little Flexible Flyer, I might have said that a time or two. After all, society tells us that it’s such a tragedy.

And it was, for a time, back when I lived out a lifetime of fears inside my imagination. But it quickly became apparent that I’d been sold the proverbial bill o’ goods, that the people who told me how terrible Down syndrome was had no idea what they were talking about.

I realize it’s still hard for a non-Downs parent to conceptualize. Having 3 non-Downs children myself, in addition to the velcro monkey, I feel qualified to put things in perspective for you. So here, in no particular order (why do I always feel the need to say that? As if you people would honesty expect anything resembling “order” to spring from a blog titled “Chaos Diaries.”), I give you 10 things that are more tragic than Down syndrome.

1. Having a run in your pantyhose

2. The thought that gas prices might rise above $3 again.

3. The fact that I didn’t get my Christmas tree down until after Mothers’ Day, and it’s almost time to put it up again.

4. Baking a hot, fresh loaf of bread–and then finding you’re out of butter.

5. Opening the jewel case of your favorite CD to find that last time you played it, you took whatever was in the CD player at the time out and stashed it in this case—and now you have no idea where your favorite CD is.

6. Having to vent your dryer out into the laundry room because the plumbers who ran the ductwork thought running the duct up through two stories and an attic out onto the roof would make infinitely more sense than running it 6 inches through the exterior wall, so now it’s always clogged and your dryer takes 3 hours to dry (and even then it doesn’t dry, it just slighty-less-wettens), and poses a fire hazard, so now every time you want to dry a load of clothes you have to open the window (which happens to be over the cat litter box) and prop the box fan in it to suck the hot, humid air out, because as posh as the idea of having an in-home sauna sounds, “black mold eradication” isn’t quite as sexy.

7. Peanut allergy. Especially when your 5 year old rushes into your arms crying after school, because one of her friends grabbed her hand on the way out of the classroom and of course, they ate PB&J for lunch and now she’s afraid she’s going to die any minute.

8. Traveling with 4 children.

9. Going to SuperTorture with 4 children

10. Being 14 years old and spending an hour flat-ironing your hair, only to walk outside in the humidity and have it frizz (which, according to my 14 year old, would also make it onto a list titled: “Things that are more tragic than the end of life as we know it on this planet).

I could go on forever. Seriously–you know I could. And what’s more–I bet you can come up with a few of your own. Leave me a comment, and let me know what things in YOUR life are way more tragic than the fact that you have a child with Down syndrome.