My story about parental #selfcare and drag queens
When Megan and I started a family we made a few loose, informal agreements about our parenting style:
We would regularly feed our children
We would give them hugs and stuff
We would make them be nice
That was basically it (ok it’s really just the last two b/c we sorta kinda intrinsically knew that we should feed them all the time and we did not, in fact, need a handshake agreement that Lily and Nora would need regular doses of broccoli and mac & cheese).
Aside from tending to the basics of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, the rest of our parenting philosophy has developed over time. One critical component to this evolution is a need for regular breaks from our damn kids. If you follow most parenting instas or read many #momblogs, you’re going to find parents absolutely devoted to their children. Whether it’s enrolling them in golfing lessons at 2 years old, having them reading by 3, and doing trigonometry by 4, most 21st century parents would have you believe the path towards happiness is through abject devotion to their children.
I am here to tell you that this is some bullshit.
Instead of teaching my kids advanced math or how to be the next Megan Rapinoe we instead took them to the World Famous Crochet Museum in Joshua Tree, CA
I love my children. I love spending time with them, teaching them things, and showing them the weirder more interesting side of life. But my path to self enlightenment isn’t through my children. Especially in the time of COVID, finding time to get the hell away from your children (and your spouse, love you Megan, mean it) is critical to not losing our damn minds. To this end, Megan and I developed two approaches to parental #selfcare.
1) We have “on duty / off duty” nights at home. This is so regular in fact that Tuesdays / Thursdays are my off duty. This means after dinner I can do whatever the hell I want. I’m not responsible for bath or bedtime or anything. Sometimes I go out, sometimes I just sit on the couch and ignore the screams of the children as their mother subjects to her attempts at rapping Eminem. But this regular few hours of solace is key to not losing our damn minds (even the girls know it. “dad, are you on duty tonight?”)
2) The second approach we take is also the one that is slightly more difficult to pull off and requires a little bit more planning. This approach can be summarized as “get the hell outta the house for a few days at least once a quarter (ish)”. I’m not talking about a couples’ getaway (though those are rad too). I mean getting away from your entire family.
This used to be easily achievable when I traveled for work on a monthly basis. But in the era of COVID, it required a little more planning and foresight. And taking some time away in the midst of our roadtrip was even more difficult. It was about 4 weeks of “quality kid time” into our trip when I realized I was ready for some much needed “TJ Time”. Since we were already spending money on an AirBnb, a luxurious trip to a spa, complete with masseuse and 800 thread count linen was going to be out of the question. We were in an unfamiliar part of the country (Southern California), but luckily, I’m an expert at finding “cheap” airbnbs that are “off the beaten path” and are an “oasis” in the middle of the desert.
I’m talking, of course, about the Hicksville Trailer Palace in Joshua Tree, California.
I can’t quite remember how I found the trailer palace but the first unusual thing is they don’t readily publish their location (who doesn’t make their location abundantly easy to find in 2021? The Hicksville Trailer Palace, that’s who). In fact, when you book your own private airstream trailer, they advise you that they will send directions 2 days before your arrival. These directions include multiple references to dirt roads and a majestic purple house. The time before google maps was pure y’all.
The amenities of the trailer palace include, but are not limited to, a ball pit (think: McDonalds in the 80s), a miniature library (as in it’s like 4’ tall and full of actual books), a live fire BB gun range (my aim is not true), and of course, all the rooms are actual trailers. And maybe the best amenity of all: NO CHILDREN ARE ALLOWED (except for two weeks a year). The trailers are themed and include the Integratrailer, so named for the Integratron, a nearby “fusion of science, art, and magic”, the Pee Wee, a Pee Wee Herman themed trailer, and the Fifi, a French Quarter beauty trailer.
I stayed in the Integratrailer which sat next to the Fifi (how often will I ever say that again). When I arrived, I threw my things in the room, poured myself a drink, and sat by the pool. I had the next 30 hours of peace and quiet to myself and I was going to get drunk as hell.
Over the course of the rest of the evening, I would meet my fellow trailer park guests. A stay at home mom doing basically the same thing as me, a woman in corporate finance, and a #vanlife couple from the east coast. We made a campfire (in a teepee, bad idea y’all), swam in the tiniest pool I’ve ever been in, shot BB guns, and basically enjoyed meeting new people and being….normal (as one can be in Joshua Tree)
It was during drink number two I noticed a couple enter the compound. A big guy, shaped like me (that is: stout as hell), and a woman who could have been a J Crew model, dressed in a blue untucked oxford shirt and nice blue jeans. They took the tour of Hicksville Trailer Palace as all new guests are required to take (you know, so you can find the outhouse in the middle of the night) and then settled into the Fifi next door to me. The girlfriend went into the trailer while the boyfriend went out to the parking lot to snag their things. Everything seemed normal.
Soon after the boyfriend came back from the car with garment bags slung over his shoulder, a couple of heavy duty cameras … and two mannequin heads bearing two ornate wigs. He casually walked by and as I was trying to process what he was doing, his girlfriend came out of the Fifi topless wearing short shorts. But it was not a she. It was a he. At this moment the facts of what lay before me came crashing together like meteorites plowing into the outer layer of our atmosphere. I was drinking whiskey in the middle of the desert by myself and I was about to witness a pretty epic drag queen photo shoot. We shall call her Maria because sadly I cannot remember her name but suffice to say that she has half a million followers on Instagram and she was recognizable enough in one of my stories that my cousin was like “yo dude, you know who that is?”
Actual footage of me realizing what was happening
My new friends and I ogled the photo shoot as it transpired around us. Maria was dressed in a dress the color of freshly caught salmon (Atlantic, not King, duh), a big hat, and huge high heels. She and the photographer made sure to take advantage of the perfect evening light, the BB gun range, the pool deck, and finally the campfire by us. We were roasting hot dogs and Maria asked if she could partake in one. There she was, dressed like she was headed to a cotillion, roasting dogs and drinking my whiskey. We got to chatting and it turned out we were both from the south. We talked about things we missed and didn’t miss. She spaced out for a second and looked at me and said “sorry, I took a shitload of mushrooms earlier today and I’m having a hard time focusing right now”. She got up and headed back to the Fifi.
It wasn’t long before we all turned in. I slept in my tiny trailer thinking about how nice it was to get some away time. To meet new and interesting people. To greet Megan, Nora, and Lil the next day refreshed and recharged. And how I wished I had brought a blanket because damn y’all the high desert gets cold at night and those freakin’ trailers weren’t insulated very well.
