Dear Children:
For the third time this month, I will attempt an evening out of the house that is non-work related. Let me be clear that emergencies are rare, and I should only be contacted if there is a true emergency. Your brother pulling your hair is not an emergency. Not being able to find Purple Bear is not an emergency. Discovering that we are out of yogurt and apples is not an emergency. Heck, don’t bother calling me if there is a fire. What can I do? It’s not like I am going to fight the fire. I’ll deal with it when I get home. You have a very capable babysitter; feel free to bother her as frequently as needed.
As for me, I will be, according to the description of the lounge, traveling back to "a bygone era of exquisite service, timeless style, classic cocktails, and expert cuisine.” I will “step away from one world and descend underground into another—a darkly burning enclave with walls nearly a century old that hold the memories and merriment of travelers and the surrounding neighborhood alike.” I could, “sip a handcrafted martini from a signature drink menu, or partake in that perfect pairing of wine and unforgettable fare.” I just want some tapas and water, but nonetheless, I will have, if not interrupted for two brief hours, an “evening of revelry, live music, and familiar comfort that is the continuation of yesteryear.”
If I get knocked out of yesteryear to deal with lost underwear and turf wars over Pillow Pets, I will have four grounded children firmly situated in the harsh reality of today.
Just so we are clear.
Your Loving Mother
