The Poconos are about a three-hour drive from my home, which is plenty of time to mentally inventory everything you may have forgotten. I did exactly that several times on the way down. My mother had her medications and everything she needed for the weekend. My daughter had prepped the meds, and I'd packed them myself, so we were good.
My mother had requested this trip a few months earlier. She wanted to spend a few days with a friend, and since she doesn't drive anymore, I'd agreed to be her transportation. I was invited to stay at the house with them, but spending several days as the third wheel on my mother's visit wasn't exactly my idea of a good time. If I was driving three hours to the Poconos, I was going to find a way to enjoy it too.
So I rented a little Airbnb about five minutes from where she was staying. It was tucked into the woods, with a fire pit out back and a clubhouse on the property. Before the trip, I did a little research and found a writers and readers festival nearby that I really wanted to attend. Then I made plans for friends to come visit. One was coming Friday night, and another friend and her daughter were joining me Saturday for a hike through Bushkill Falls. What had started as transportation for my mother had quietly become a weekend I was looking forward to.
By the time we arrived, I felt pretty good about the whole arrangement. I got my mother settled at her friend's house, made sure she had everything she needed, and drove the five minutes to the Airbnb. I carried my bags inside and looked around. It was quiet. Nobody was asking me where anything was, and I had an entire refrigerator to myself.
An empty refrigerator.
I opened it and stared for a second, as though perhaps food might appear if I gave it time.
Nothing.
Then I looked at the coffee maker sitting on the counter.
Also nothing.
No coffee. No bottled water. Not so much as a cracker rolling around in the bottom of one of my bags.
I’m usually meticulous about this stuff. I’m the person who brings snacks, bottled water, soft drinks, coffee, and enough miscellaneous provisions to survive a minor weather event. I don't just go somewhere and hope food works itself out. And while my mother's bag was packed down to the last detail, mine contained clothes, a phone charger, and apparently the assumption that once I crossed the Pennsylvania state line, basic provisions would materialize on their own. So I got back in the car and went looking for a grocery store. I didn't find one. I DID find a liquor store, and obviously, I bought a bottle of wine. Look, nobody said my priorities were completely gone. Don't judge.
I woke up Friday morning excited for the day and went to the writers and readers festival, which was the part of the weekend I'd been looking forward to most. I wandered into the town library, met a few new people, then sat in on an interactive writers' workshop that was, frankly, amazing.
I looked around the room and realized I was surrounded by like-minded people talking about writing on a random Friday afternoon. I hadn't been to an in-person event like this in years. Caring for my father and now my mother had made things like this harder to make happen. But here I was. And I was proud of myself for making it happen. I walked in with no expectations and walked out with joy in my heart and a composition notebook containing the beginnings of my next book.
That evening, my first guest arrived and quickly discovered that her host had prepared for her visit by providing shelter and absolutely nothing else. Since I couldn't exactly offer her a glass of tap water and a tour of the empty refrigerator, we headed to the clubhouse on the property for food. But at least we had wine for later, which felt like a small win.
She headed out the next morning just as my next guests pulled in. They unloaded a case of water, a bag of snacks, and the makings for s'mores. I don't think I've ever been happier to see someone show up with provisions. Suddenly, this was starting to look like a girls' weekend instead of a poorly planned survival exercise.
Soon after their arrival, we headed to Bushkill Falls, where I took a knee scheduled for replacement in less than three weeks and introduced it to an unreasonable number of stairs. The sound of the falls through the trees and the cool air almost made me forget what I was doing to myself.
Almost.
I knew this wasn't my smartest orthopedic decision, but I wasn't spending a fall weekend in the Poconos sitting inside because of my damn knee. The knee survived and complained bitterly afterward, but that's between me and the knee.
The next morning, just before checkout, my friend and I sat on the couch sipping the coffee we'd finally found, and she started telling me about her daughter and her new program. The conversation turned to all the things she'd learned to notice over the years, especially how often she sees a problem coming and steps in before it has a chance to become something bigger.
I started asking questions. A lot of questions.
So I went and got my laptop.
It didn't hit me until the drive home. I'd spent the morning with my friend talking about how much her life involves thinking ahead, anticipating what her daughter might need before she needs it. And there I was, driving home after a weekend I'd spent completely unprepared for myself, even though I'd made damn sure my mother had everything she needed.
There's an easy lesson to pull from all of this. We all know the theme song: “Don't Forget About Yourself.” The chorus includes lyrics like, Put on your oxygen mask, ask for help, take a bubble bath. Blah, blah, blah.
Except that isn't what happened.
I hadn't forgotten myself. The Airbnb was proof. I could have stayed with my mother and her friend and let the whole trip become about her and what she needed. Instead, I'd deliberately made room for a weekend I wanted to have too. I'd made room for myself. I just hadn't given much thought to what I'd need once I got there.
We’re told to make time for ourselves as though it requires a strategic plan, complete with goals, objectives, and probably a PowerPoint presentation. But nothing about my responsibility to my mother had changed. She still needed a ride to Pennsylvania. I still needed to be nearby. Making room for myself didn't require any of that to disappear. It just required it not to take up all the room.
And look what happened when I left a little room for myself. I found a writers' workshop, the beginnings of a new book, time with friends, a ridiculous number of stairs, s'mores around a fire, and a conversation that turned into another story.
Turns out I remembered the important part.
Next time, I'll remember the coffee too.
With you,
Tahnya
