There is no one to bring breakfast to my room every morning with my favorite newspaper, there is no healthy evening snack waiting for me when I go to bed, and no one has made me a smoothie in five days. Worst of all, my feet are going through total withdrawal after being rubbed every day two to three times a day for a week. And the lavender-lemongrass scent has long since faded from my limbs after my body scrub on Thurs.
What’s a girl to do?
I tried teaching the kids to make me smoothies and bring me breakfast in bed. After all, Siig has trained them to get him a beer from the fridge. But the experiment didn’t work out so well. Turns out that letting two kids loose in the kitchen for some fun time with a blender and frying pan just means more mess for mom to clean up. Where are those maids and room service attendants when I need them?
I still had Siig to work with. Surely he wouldn’t deny a post-spa-recovering girl from a massage? I tried to convince him to rub my back, but, unbelievably, he said he’d rather go snowmobiling. I decided to switch to a different tactic, a more direct approach. Sitting on the couch watching TV, I stuck my bare feet in his face and played the pregnancy card: “Oh, help a mother out! My aching feet. My back. My neck.” It worked – for about three minutes. Then Siig stood up, mumbling something about needing to teach the kids about how to open a beer bottle with their teeth.
I guess I have no choice but to accept my plight – total relaxation-pampering-me-time is over; now I’m back to being mother of two (and a half), cooker of meals, shuttling of children, writer of articles, blogger extraordinaire and (my favorite. not.), shopper of food.
To ease the transition back into my real life, I think I better get a facial. And a manicure. My nail polish from the Golden Door Spa is already chipping.