Where Is My Escape Chute?

On Monday, Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater went stark raving mad.  In New York.  Which meant the New York Post was one of the first news sources to report on it.  So that's pretty much a trifecta of awesomeness for me.  Only the New York Post would have the journalistic cojones to describe Mr. Slater as "the attendant-turned-wingnut."  I could not stop giggling.  He is being hailed as the new working class hero.  Like a sassier version of the guy in Office Space.

I adore when other people go stark raving mad.  It makes me feel like I'm kind of normal.  And at first I was all, you go ya crazy wingnut.  But then a flight attendant friend pointed out to me that the emergency chute inflates in under six seconds with some major force.  So I hope that Mr. Slater looked around first to make sure there was no ground crew under the plane to get slide-smacked into the tarmac.  And then there's the issue of him taking a beer with him down the slide, when he's apparently a recovering alcoholic. So it starts to feel a little less giggly, in the face of all that.  Maybe not so much my hero.
If you are in a position to afford it, by all means, going out of a job in a blaze of glory is wicked fun.  I once walked out on a job after a public confrontation with the company president because the firm required all employees to give to a specific charity.  I had no problem with the charity, I just had a problem with my employer telling me what to do with my pay.  I hated the job anyway, and we didn't have kids yet, and I bailed.  It was tremendously satisfying.

Before we met, the Absent-Minded Professor quit a job after a blowout, cussing fight with his boss.  Then he packed up and stomped all over Europe for a few months to cool off.

We have agreed that that time in our lives is over.

That being said: I want an emergency chute for my house.  Or an escape tunnel.  Or an escape pod.  Or maybe just for that damn Calgon to work instead of leaving me in a tub of tepid water with the kids banging at the bathroom door.

When I'm cooking dinner and the kids are whiny and tired and bickering, there are plenty of times that I'd like to just crack open a beer and escape out of the kitchen on a big yellow slide.  But, of course, if we actually had a lever that deployed a giant slide, it would be deployed all the time.  And the kids would be going bonkers on it 24/7, and then maybe I could cook dinner in peace.  Either way, it would be a win.

My husband, the Absent-Minded Professor, is the closest thing I have to an escape chute.  I have, more than once, handed him a baby the second he walked in the door from work and announced, "I have to go out now.  It's in everyone's best interest." 

One time, a long day of Little Dude's insane challenging behavior had worn me out.  I raised my voice at him (to get him to quiet down -- yes, I appreciate the irony) and he screamed back at me.  I threw up my hands and announced to the living room, "I'm done.  I'm done for the evening."

The Absent-Minded Professor said, "peace out, honey."  He is freaking awesome.

I walked into my bedroom and shut the door.  A few minutes later, the Peanut Butter Kid showed up, fresh from her shower, and said that she was ready to have her hair brushed.

"Nope.  I can't do it.  Because I'm done for the evening."

"Okayyyy," she said.  She paused and thought.  "I will do it myself, then."  She skipped away, quietly shutting the door behind her.  And then I cried. 

I am human.  Sometimes I crack, just a little bit.  Or a lot.  An emergency chute could be sorely tempting.

But the next day I got up, had some coffee, and started over.  I'm the mom. There are no vacation days, and no sick days.  No matter how tired you are, no matter how hard it is some days, no matter how many people may say, "I don't know how you do it!"  You just do it.  No escape chute.

A friend of mine recently found out, in the span of one week, that she is pregnant and has breast cancer.  She is up to her eyeballs in doctors and scariness.  Instead of thinking about nursery colors, she's thinking about which kind of chemo is safe in which trimester.  You know what she's doing?  She's putting on her big-girl panties and taking care of business.  She's going to the right doctors, doing the right things, and is doing her best to keep herself and her growing baby healthy.

She is my hero.  You are my heroes.  You, me, us.  The dads and moms who don't ever take the escape chute.

I still want a big giant slide for my house though.