Sir Thomas More was of the opinion that pleasure must be more than the mere removal of pain: eating, drinking, sleeping–none of these could truly qualify as pleasurable, since none of these could ever be enjoyable without their twins of hunger, thirst, and fatigue. In theory I agree with him; in practice, however, it is quite another matter. It must be: how else other than pure pleasure could you describe the feeling you get when, in the five minutes between putting away the groceries and heading back out the door, you check your messages and find out that soccer/karate/hockey/baseball/violin/girl scout/cub scout(Am I forgetting something here? Oh, yeah–4-H) is cancelled for the evening?
When I find out that, despite all of my children’s extracurricular efforts to the contrary, I actually have an evening free to sit on the couch in my pajamas and watch Law & Order reruns, I am sure that my joy is equal to the joy I would feel if I got home to a message from the doctor saying, “Whoops–my bad–you don’t have terminal cancer after all.” Actually, I would probably be happier with a cancelled soccer game than the cancer misdiagnosis, because not even terminal illness can excuse you when it is your turn to bring snack.
The same, to a lesser degree, can be said about any children’s event you manage to sneak out of early, whether it is the two-hour long awards ceremony where your child actually gets their award first (and where you had the foresight to sit at the table nearest the door for a quick, unobtrusive exit), or the girl scout meeting where, either through a) being completely prepared and having your paperwork filled out ahead of time or, b) being completely unprepared and not having brought the right paperwork at all, you get to go home early.
Recently I attended a practice violin recital with my son Clyde where–in what was such a reversal of the usual laws of the Universe that I’m surprised the space/time continuum itself didn’t split apart and start issuing forth men in Victorian topcoats riding on dinosaurs–Clyde was one of the first to perform. Not only that, but after he played his piece there was just enough confusion up on stage to give us enough time–if we were quick about it–to make a hasty exit. (I know–very bad violin manners–but something came over me as I watched the next performer fumble about up on stage: I felt like a canary that had just spied the cage door swinging shut, and, not thinking about what might be waiting on the other side, jumped off of my perch and flew. “Run, Clyde, run,” I hissed as I gathered up purse, car keys, violin, violin case and bow in one untidy heap and sprinted for the door. “Run!”)
As we burst out into the parking lot, I felt giddy with my new freedom. The air smelled sweeter than it had when we had gone in, and I swear I could have reached into Clyde’s backpack, grabbed the mealiest, the waxiest, the left-in-the-bottom-of-the-lunch-box-for-three-days-iest apple, and it still would have tasted as sweet as the one that tempted Eve.
Bluebirds fluttering above my head, I nearly swept a passing NAU student up in am embrace that would have been worthy of a sailor on D-Day; as we pulled out of the parking lot with the sun still shining brightly in the sky (“Mommy, what’s that doing up there?”) I realized that tonight I would actually have time to make the kind of dinner that has become, for us, somewhat of a rarity–in other words, cooked.
It wasn’t until I found myself whistling the theme to The Great Escape, however, that I realized I was feeling exactly like Steve McQueen must have felt when he rode his stolen motorcycle across the German countryside: free.