It began with a text from a friend.

“I have the most fantastical travel proposal for you…..know there’s probably no way it can work out but give me a shout…”

Intriguing!

Exciting travel plans for a mama are typically defined as a solo trip to the grocery store or an occasional hour between sporting events wandering through Target with a coffee.

I soon discovered the scenario being shared was the possibility of flying to Boston, for a weekend, to spend time with a close girlfriend.

An amazing opportunity and much needed mama respite, but a logistical nightmare with four kids in three different schools, spring sporting events, and various other commitments.

The headache required to coordinate a weekend away typically would have resulted in my remorseful decline of the invitation.

However, I had just been speaking to my B-Study on the Go moms about the importance of self-care. The intentionality Jesus placed on giving himself time to rest and recharge.

And he said to them, “Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest a while.” For there were many people coming and going, and they did not even have time to eat.” (Oh mama – is he speaking to us or what!) Mark 6:31

Time to practice what Jesus preached.

I purchased the plane ticket. I was really doing this!

But a day before my adventure began, the panic set in. I am rarely away from my kids. What if one of them got sick? What if something happened to me during the trip?

I had bought pork chops to make for supper. Was that really the last meal I wanted to be remembered for if I didn’t make it back? All the great dinners I had cooked only to be erased in one lackluster showing by the awkward cousin to chicken. No way I was going out like that. I shoved the meat into the freezer and decided on pizza.

My alarm rang at 2:30 am in order to catch the red-eye. I drove in the direction of the airport, greeted by barren roads.

“I am off on an adventure,” I gleefully announced to an empty van. Nothing but miles separated me from this exciting journey.

Then I saw him. A police car, waiting at the highway turnaround. I glanced nervously at my speed. It read precisely the posted limit. I kept a careful eye on the rear view mirror. No car pulled out. A minute passed. My breathing slowly returned to normal.

“Adventure,” I whispered into thin air.

A flash of light caught my eye. The police car barreled up the road and pulled directly behind me. My heart was in my throat. No lights. No siren. Just following, close to my bumper, on the desolate highway.

My mind went wild. I envisioned him radioing in my license plate number.

“Solo female in a minivan registered to a mom of four. Three kids in sports. Where could she possibly be going, alone, on a weekend with multiple games? The airport for a mom’s getaway…?”

Complete radio silence interrupted by boisterous guffaws from both parties.

“That’s hilarious.” The officer would wipe the laughter induced tears from his eyes. “No really, why is she on the road?”

The police cruiser continued to drive behind me and my thoughts raced.

“Dispatcher, it says she recently dealt with a bout of lice with her six year old. There might be mental health issues as a result. Please phone ahead to the airport. Have her checked at the gate…..yes, for a breakdown and nits.”

And so it progressed as he tailed me for another five minutes.

Suddenly, the police car’s headlights turned off, plunging it into complete darkness. After a few moments, the low beams turned back on, he pulled into the left lane and rapidly drove around me.

I stared, stunned, until his tail lights faded into the distance.

This was not a signal I had learned in driver’s ed. Had the mama warden cleared me for take-off? Was a licensed school nurse going to take it from here? What in the world did that mean?

Considerably shaken, I spent the rest of the drive in a paranoid state but calmed as I arrived at the express parking lot, unloaded my suitcase and jumped aboard the airport shuttle. I was joined by an older gentleman, his wife and an athletic guy in his late thirties.

The gentleman asked why we were traveling. The athlete stated he was a collegiate baseball referee. The man’s eye lit up, wanting to know more.

I waited patiently for my turn to share. He unintentionally glanced in my direction and I seized the moment. “I am a mom with four kids,” I blurted out. “Traveling for the weekend…alone…this never happens.” I waited for him to register the audaciousness of the statement.

His eyes glazed over and he quickly focused his attention back on the referee. “So, your job must be fascinating,” he prompted.

Inwardly I rolled my eyes, perturbed at my dismissal.

I’m a referee too, I thought darkly. Breaking up squabbles, three strikes and timeout for the five year old. Bet my calls of who had it first are more challenging than behind the plate.

I tuned out the male bravado and smiled as the airport appeared through the window.

Now, only a security checkpoint stood between me and a weekend of laughter, renewal and mama time. What could possibly go wrong?

The referee, it turned out, was flying on the same plane and stood directly behind me. I had already heard how he flew all over the country for his job and I felt intense pressure to show him that moms have travel savvy too. The line snaked around and ended at the gray bins used to hold items to be scanned. With extreme confidence, I stooped to grab one. It seemed stuck and wouldn’t budge. I could feel the referee’s eyes watching, and in order to maintain the travel cred of mamas everywhere, I braced my foot on the floor, gripped the offending bin with all my strength and pulled.

It would not move.

From behind me, a loud voice rang out. “That bin is bolted to the floor ma’am. Unless you’ve got some tools on you, it’s not going anywhere.”

I turned to find a grinning security officer briskly striding to where I stood.

The law enforcements’ commitment to ensure the world’s safety from moms traveling alone continued. I wondered if my photo had been forwarded by my earlier police escort, placing everyone on high alert.

“I was going to let you keep at it until you got tired,” he said.

“Well that’s not very nice,” I told him as I dissolved into giggles, forgetting my desire to display suave airport decorum.

The referee didn’t crack a smile.

“Maybe,” the officer agreed. “But you sure made my day!” He grinned broadly and handed me an unbolted bin.

“Well, that is what I am here for,” I managed to choke out between belly laughs. “To entertain the masses.”

He walked off chuckling, leaving me to pull myself together in front of the increasingly restless crowd and referee.

I put my items into the bin and was motioned to enter the body scanner. I could see the promised land. The corridor filled with coffee and pastries. Rows of empty seats to sit and relax into nothingness.

I eagerly stepped forward.

“You’ll need to take your sweatshirt off.” It was more of a bark than a request.

“Sorry?” I said.

I was wearing what appeared to be a sweatshirt but in reality was just a thin shirt that contained a zipper, for fashion purposes only. Under it, I had a threadbare tank top, not suitable for public display.

“Take your sweatshirt off and assume the position in the picture.”

I glanced up and saw a pose that looked like a dance move from “Chicago.” Feet shoulder width apart, arms extended up, complete with jazz hands.

I felt the giggles swell in me again. I do love a good jazz hand. This had to be a hidden camera moment but the stern look from security and the increased officer presence sobered me quickly.

I could tell he was in no mood to count me in.

5,6,7,8

I stripped down, without a musical intro, and struck a pose.

.”Just like the picture ma’am,” he yelled.

Everyone’s a critic. No room for artistic interpretation.

I adjusted my stance, received a curt nod and exited the booth.

As I passed, I heard a female officer ask “what did she do?”

I kept walking, not bothering to wait for his response, but I am fairly certain it started with “she’s the mom we were notified about, trying to get away for the weekend.”

I sat down on a bench, half-clothed but with a full heart, and smiled. My wander through the wilderness had ended. Let the mama weekend begin.

And what a weekend it was! A time to connect with a dear friend, but more importantly, time to reconnect with me.  

I get the chance to hear from a lot of mamas and my heart hurts from what they share. This generation of moms are the road warriors, determined to give our children every opportunity to succeed. In sports. In school. In life. But in exchange, we have become as threadbare as my tank top, desperately waiting for a wrinkle in time to open up a moment for us to recharge. To reconnect with ourselves. To spend time with our Creator. 

The impact is an epidemic. Motherhood shifting from pick-up line to practice, coffee cup to wine, exhaustion to burn out.

And our children are watching. Emulating.

It is so important that our daughters grow up witnessing their mamas taking time for self-care. Observe us nurturing ourselves emotionally, physically and spiritually. Giving ourselves permission to be the fearless, passion-filled women of God, we were created to be.

Because when their time comes, I want them to enter motherhood aware that the world will do its best to hold them in its frenetic pace. It will clamp its iron jaws steadfast and only they can intentionally create the wrinkle to recharge. And in those puckered, unironed moments, I want them to spread their mama wings and suck every joy stuffed, laughter drenched, faith inspired moment that God has created for them to enjoy.

How about you?