August was added to the calendar to torture me.

OKAY. Fine.

I’ll be the one to say it.

Other moms are thinking it but they’re too chicken to say it. Or do it.

I am running away.

By myself.

To a beach, probably, with a vineyard next door. And an unlimited Amazon account.

I love my children. Really.

I love my husband. I promise.

But I am so sick and tired of all of them that I want to take a handkerchief (no, too small. A bath towel? Too common. And old Hermes scarf? Perfect!), fill it with essentials, like my retinol and a toothbrush, tie it to a stick (hmmm, don’t have a stick, maybe my husband’s old crutch would work) and resolutely march down the street.

No, wait, rewind. Get in the car that’s come to pick me up. The limo, let’s say.

And then it will take me to my beach. Well, after it drops me off at the yacht that’s taking me to my...island. Better than just a beach. My island.

And no one else will live there.

Except for one hot lifeguard.

(No, no, no...tangent. Dangerous tangent.) Back to the island, and me there, alone.

Where I don’t have to cook dinner. I don’t have to pay bills. I don’t have to listen to “HE LICKED MY ARM AFTER I SNEEZED ON IT!” or “Honey, I hate my job. Can’t you earn some money?”

Where I don’t have to spend 20 minutes at the pet store trying to figure out if the (stupid, pointless) frogs need frog food or if they can survive on the (equally stupid and pointless) fish’s food.

Where I don’t have to panic over the discoloration in my dog’s poop or my six year old’s inability to say the letter “r” or wondering if my daughter is going to end up a serial killer.

(Oh, honey, I’m just kidding. I know you’re not a serial killer. But sometimes you get mad, and you do give me a pretty mean look, and, frankly, you’re very cute but at that moment you’re a little scary.)

Where I don’t have to say, “If you open your eyes when you walk, you won’t run into the wall.”

Where I don’t have to enforce time outs, or budgets, or lessons, or chores, or television limits, or food groups, or good hygiene.

Where no one wants to wiggle their loose teeth in my face, even though it grosses me out. Jack.

Where no one says, “Can you buy...”or “If I pay you back...” or “Why can’t I have an iTouch like the children whose parents really love them?”

Where the words “I’m bored” and “playdate” are never, ever uttered.

Just me. And a comfortable beach chair, and a good book, and a glass of wine, and a view of the ocean.

I’ll send a postcard, I swear.

Maybe.

In a while.