“That’s all I want. Just a day to recharge.” I can be found saying this from time to time when the grind is getting me down, when my patience is waning.

I get my chance, my dangling carrot. I have an opportunity to visit my husband while on business in Las Vegas. The planets have aligned, my mother has consented to oversee the troops. I have 30 sweet, sweet hours. Now is Vegas on my Top 10? Not really. But the idea of an adult playground and a little bit of dirty is appealing when you’ve been on a Curious George bender.

I board the plane with all of the enthusiasm of a virgin bride on her wedding night. Trash magazines in hand, destination: Sin City. The flight from Seattle is 2 hours. And 39mins into the flight, trash mags read and re-read (I actually lost IQ points) and I’m talking to the 6mo old baby behind me. Wondering what my kids are doing? And the first thing I do when the plane lands? Pull out my phone and force photos of my kids on the two less-than-mildly-interested neighbors whose only interactions with me were letting me get up to pee. “Wanna see my kids?” Not really, lady. I’m a disgrace to mothers everywhere who just need a break. Unable to unplug and leave the responsibilities behind. But those responsibilities are so freaking cute. And the further I get from my front door, the more I wonder why I would ever leave.

It’s kind of like an ex-boyfriend. You’re miserable. They’re frustrating you in every possible way. You can’t stand them anymore. You break up. They move on. All you remember are the good times. 39 mins into my flight. My promise land: Las Vegas, NV has become a 30 hour prison preventing me from the best slobbery kisses. No one to ask me incessant questions. No one to cry when I put them down.

Now, for SAHMs everywhere, I vow I will make the best of this prison. I will start with a lounge chair and a cocktail. It’s just so good to be reminded that you love what you’re doing with your life and there’s no where else, not even Sin City, that you’d rather be.