RSVPing for the Rest Home

I don't think I realized what bad of shape I was in until last weekend, when we visited a nursing home. My husband was there to provide some music for the residents, so I tagged along and brought two of the kids. It's a lot of fun to talk to the residents of a place like this, mostly because they are usually so visibly pleased to have a visitor. And their eyes light up especially at the sight of children. And when their eyes light up, I like to look in their faces, and imagine them as children themselves. Without the wrinkles and the brittle bones. Before the gray hair.

Surprisingly, it's often not hard at all to imagine them as younger people, who had the same worries and fears and joys that I have now. That story of their life is still on their faces, still at the surface.

All my life, I called these places "nursing homes." My husband calls them "Rest Homes." Where did these names come from?

While we were at the nursing home, my son took this photo of the fireplace. I like it when my kids take photographs. It's a rare opportunity to see the world as they see it.

I've found myself actually daydreaming about the rest home. It was lovely there; there was an open area off the lobby where this roaring fire was the centerpiece. There were overstuffed couches in tasteful decor that looked so inviting with their plump pillows. The residents moved slowly around me. They even nodded slowly, and their smiles were real, and they didn't look hurried or worried. I didn't see a single pile of laundry anywhere, and there were no toys scattered all over the floor.

I could get used to this.

The moniker "Rest Home" appeals to me. I have been hell on wheels these last few weeks. I am at the end of my collective rope. I can't take any more of this winter. The cold is getting dangerously close to freezing my soul. My duties as a wife and mother are piling up around me. I wonder when this rat race of my life will ever slow down to a manageable pace.

I indulged my secret to another Mommy friend over the phone this morning. "I'm kind of thinking," I said hesitantly, "I don't know … like I'd like to check into the rest home."

I closed my eyes and waited for her to mock me. To tell me I was crazy.

"You know," she said, after some thoughtful consideration, "that wouldn't be so bad. I mean, as long as we'd have half our marbles ..."

So there's my crazy confession. Don't write to scold me. Don't tell me I should be grateful for my crazy life, my non-stop family. I know. I love them. They are fun, and a true blessing.

But face it: a Caribbean vacation with fruity drinks and sun is not in my budget, and therefore, not in my future. Right now, just give me this. When the kids have worn me out, and have etched laugh lines into my face and robbed my hair of its color, I know there's a place with a comfy couch and a fireplace just waiting for me.

Sign me up.