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….

On my very first post (About the chaos), I said that this blog would not improve your life. Except for the free tidbit about using a blowdryer to defog your bathroom mirror, I think I’ve done a pretty admirable job of following through on that promise.

But as I prepare to celebrate 19 years of wedded bliss, I’m feeling the urge to impart some marital wisdom, so I hereby revoke the aforementioned commitment to irrelevance in favor of invoking something relevant about commitment.

You might be wondering about my qualifications at this point. I mean, lots of couples end up being married a long time, but nobody’s searching Amazon for Archie Bunker’s Relationship Guide. Let me just say that we have had our ups and downs, we have weathered near-bankruptcy, the birth of a special needs child, and the shoulder-to-shoulder building of a house, and we are more madly in love today than ever. I’m talkin’ toe-curling, make-me-blush, knock-the-world-off-its-axis love.

For the most part, I think having that kind of relationship is a choice. Sure, there are lots of people whose Prince (or Princess) Charming turned out to be a bona fide toad. Not a cute little croaking frog, but a nasty, poison-oozing, get-that-thing-off-my-back-porch toad. But most of the time, I think it’s a matter of perspective, of seeing the frog in ourselves and realizing that if this person really was perfect, they’d no doubt be smart enough to realize they were too good for us (I pray The Hubby never figures this out).

So here, in no particular order (because I’m only halfway through my cuppa tea, and since I’m still out of English Breakfast tea I’m drinking white tea, which tastes kinda like wet dog smell mixed with chewing tobacco, and it’s not even hot anymore, more like lukewarm. So there’s no way I’m going to be able to intentionally come up with anything resembling “order.”), are a few of my secrets to a happy marriage.

1. Take it when you can get it. There is nothing sexier to a husband than the sight of his wife washing dishes. Or vacuuming. Or folding laundry. The same man who–when sitting down to the lovingly prepared meal of all his favorite foods that you slaved over half the day–can lick his plate clean, belch, and never register any emotion whatsoever will see you standing over a sink full of dishes, unshowered, hair pulled up in a My Little Pony headband you found under the couch when you were looking for the Baby Einstein DVD that the 3-yr-old was having an absolute meltdown over, up to your elbows in soap suds, and think “I’ve gotta have that woman now.”

If you’re married, you’ve been there. And you’ve probably said the same thing I said for the first 10 years or so of my marriage, some hostile version of “Are you crazy?”

I think it must be tied to the whole predator/prey thing. You know–the predator spies the prey in a vulnerable situation and then pounces, knowing the prey won’t flee and risk dripping dirty dishwater all over the floor.

Here’s my advice: let the predator win. After all, what’s more fun: scraping dried yogurt out of cereal bowls or having someone nibble your neck? And don’t just stiffen up and endure it. Stop the scraping. Relax. And yes, a man’s idea of affection is basically a good grope. If your hubby is attracted enough to you to want to grope you–congratulations! Don’t do anything to make him change his mind. Let him play the victorious tiger rejoicing over the spoils of his hunt for a minute, and then you can say something like “Okay Tiger, the sooner I get these dishes washed, the sooner we can get the kids in bed.”

B. Flirt shamelessly. No, not with the cute barista at Starbucks. He’s half your age, for cryin’ in a bucket! I mean with your hubby. Think back to when you first met, when you were trying to get his attention. Bat your eyelashes, smile winsomely. Let him catch you checkin’ out his butt, and then look away bashfully when he catches you. Or don’t look away–wink at him.

Studies show (don’t ask me which studies. I have 831 messages in my inbox. You honestly think I’m the kind of person who can keep up with where I read something?) that touching a man on the right side of his body crosses the physical/emotional attachment..thing. Basically, when you touch them on the right side, it does more than elicit a physical reaction, it also makes them more caring, loving, etc. Use that to your advantage. Trace your fingertip along the edge of his ear. Play with his hair. Drag your fingernails down his bicep. Oh–and when you do, bite your lip and act all hot. Guys love that stuff.

III. LAUGH. See, I put that in all caps. Must be important. One of the biggest mistakes I made for the first decade or so of our marriage was taking everything–including myself–too seriously. I was obsessed with the notion of acting like a “grown-up,” which evidently meant we weren’t supposed to be having any fun. Or rather, that there was a time for fun and a time for business, and never the twain should meet.

How many times have you read or heard that laughter releases endorphins? It’s true. And laughter is a heck of an aphrodisiac. It’s really good at curing self-consciousness, too. Just make sure you laugh with your spouse and at yourself, not the other way around. And take this attitude with you into the boudoir. I’m not talking about wearing a clown wig and cracking jokes (unless your hubby likes that sorta thing…), but lighten up. Intimacy doesn’t have to be some formal, solemn act. It’s supposed to be fun.

Next post: How am I supposed to get anything done when any sentence starting with the words “Will you” qualifies as nagging? Ah–I have the secret! My very favorite marriage tip ever.