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I Ain't No Supermodel

Every summer the kids go spend a week at Grandpa’s. It’s good for them: They learn to fish and appreciate Abbott and Costello. It’s good for Grandpa, too: He gets someone to share his mud pie and mow his lawn.

But mostly, it’s good for my husband and me. We take full advantage of our offspring’s absence by vowing to pursue distinctly adult pleasures, avoiding Go-GURT and playground sand at all costs.

We go out at night and stay out later than we need to — later than we even want to — just to wallow in the freaky freedom of not having to check in with a sitter. Or we stay home, eat Brie for dinner, and watch R-rated movies at full volume, ecstatic in the certainty that no one will stumble in saying, “Mommy, that prison rape scene woke me up… ” We plan marathon sessions of wild monkey sex but never get around to them because, frankly, our mojo has so long been attuned to the family schedule that without the threat of being walked in on, the deed loses some urgency.

But it’s okay. Because by about the third day, we realize — with appropriate shame — that what we want most is not to savor the privileges of adulthood; it’s to behave like infants.

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