Remember a long time ago, when I suggested that perhaps we each take $150.00 and a bad haircut and see how far we could get?

Well, now I have this:

And I happen to have a bad haircut.

Tomorrow night, at 5:45 p.m., I will pull out of my driveway for forty-five hours of kid-free time.

I’m thinking of making a run for the border.

Sometimes, I wish life had a preplanned soundtrack. You know how when you sit in the theater the background music ebbs and flows and sometimes even tells the story? Music fills in the awkward silence with harmony and melody and rhythm. At those times when you are speechless, a soundtrack would be just the thing.

The soundtrack to my life is a mish-mash, a hodge-podge, a hoot.

The soundtrack to elementary school years included such popular songs as Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head. My dad crooned this song while we drove in the car and soon, I was crooning along.

In third grade, I auditioned for the school choir and that’s when I first learned “Sing” . . . which more recently can be heard on Sesame Street. We also sang a Ray Charles hit called “Fifty Nifty United States.” I can still recite the states in alphabetical order thanks to that song.

I won the first record album I ever owned. Most of you have probably never heard of Love Song, but it was released in 1972 and began a new era in Christian music. I still have it somewhere.

I started playing the piano when I was in second grade. But as you can see, I had aspirations to be a lounge singer from a very young age:

When my parents divorced, my siblings and I moved in with my dad and my stepmother. She was (and still is) a classical flutist. Perhaps that led to the decision to buy a new piano just for me. From sixth grade on, I had a piano in my bedroom. No stereo, just a piano. I spent many hours playing classical music and also accompanying myself as I sang.

My abilities as a pianist were somewhere limited by my inability to play by ear. I could read notes, but I couldn’t pick out a tune, at least not with more than one finger. So, I tended to pick songs to sing that I could actually play. This ruled out anything uptempo. My favorite songbook was (WARNING! WARNING!! Locate your barf-bag if you are prone to seasickness) by Barry Manilow.

Okay, so that’s really embarrassing, I suppose. While I’m at it, let me also admit my teenage adoration of Olivia Newton-John. Until, of course, she went and got physical. I was strictly a fan of the 1970s stuff.

In junior high, the other kids were rocking to heavy metal, but I was devoted to “The Morning After” from the Poseidon Adventure. I also had a short love affair with Gordon Fitzgerald’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzegerald.”

In a school gong show, I dressed up as a war-protesting hippy and sang “The Merry Minuet” by the Kingston Trio. I was gonged. That might be the most humiliating moment of my life, actually, eclipsed only by this written confession of my shaky musical history.

In high school, I was fond of The Second Chapter of Acts, Amy Grant, and Keith Green. In fact, when I was fourteen (in 1979), I heard Amy Grant and Keith Green sing in at Jesus Northwest, an outdoor Christian festival near Portland, Oregon. (Keith Green’s music that night literally changed the direction of my life. From that moment on, I have been attempting to follow God with all my heart. I’m not kidding, either.)

In high school, I worked at Taco Time with a heavy-metal fan. I am shocked to realize I can’t remember his name, though I remember his face. He introduced me to Iron Maiden and Motley Crue, but you knew that I never became a fan, didn’t you?

Mylon LeFevre and Broken Heart peformed at my college and I became an instant fan. Much later, I’d meet his daughter (who ended up marrying Peter Furler of the Newsboys) and date a roadie. No really. Look here: (Okay, well, really, we just went out a few times because–and I apologize, Ryder, I really do–he just wasn’t my type, despite the fact that we had the same hair.)

I introduced myself to Michael W. Smith once and saw him in concert. (He must have given me tickets.) I listened to Kathy Troccoli and Russ Taff. I spent a lot of time in the music building, playing, singing and listening to other musicians. That rickety old building was my haven in the emotional storms of college.

The music that evokes the most emotion from my college days is Chicago, specifically songs like “Hard Habit to Break.” How can you not weep when you listen to that album? (You’re weeping now, aren’t you?)

One road trip (with Mindy in her Mustang) featured Janet Jackson’s Control. That was a long, long road trip, full of rhythm and marshmallow pinwheel cookies. And delirium and caffeine.

Nowadays, I have a collection of hits by The Carpenters in my CD player. I wanted to be Karen Carpenter when I was young. I sing along now, fully aware of my nerd status of musical tastes.

But I don’t care. And it doesn’t matter if “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore”-I have my slipshod soundtrack and I. Can’t. Hear. Your. Laughter. At. My. Expense.

If I ever lose a jacket and must offer a description to reclaim it, this is what I’ll say:

“Check the pockets. You’ll find three crumpled, used tissues in one pocket. In the other pocket, there will be a small wad of new tissues, two black hair rubber bands, and an empty candy wrapper. You may or may not find a rolled up dollar bill and a penny.”

Every single jacket or sweater I put on has these items in the pockets. I am extremely predictable. Plus, I have a sniffling nose all winter. And I eat too much candy.

So, what’s in your pocket?

Last week, I gave my daughter some toast before bathtime. Some time later, as she was climbing into the tub, I asked, “Did you eat your toast?”

She eyed me for a moment, then flashed a quizzical grin, lifted her foot up and stuck her toes into her mouth. I stared at her in some confusion until I realized she thought I said “toes,” as in “Did you eat your toes?”

I just had a moment of utter bewilderment in which I could not remember if it were Tuesday or Wednesday. My thoughts went something like this:

Wait, today the boys went to P.E.
But today is Tuesday. P.E. is Wednesday.
And Monday.
Wait, Monday was Halloween.
But this morning was quiet.
Oh no, that was yesterday morning. This morning we caught up on all the half-done and incorrect assignments.
Are you sure it’s not Wednesday?
No, Halloween was Monday. That was yesterday.
So it’s not Wednesday?
No, it has to be Tuesday because the Real World was just on.

A little more than three years ago, I told my husband I needed to get away. Overnight, at least a couple of nights. Time was running out and I had realized that I had never spent a night away from my then-four year old son. I was about to give birth to another baby and I knew I’d be sticking close to home for a long time after the baby arrived.

I ended up having my little fling a few days before my daughter was born. She was born three days early. (I returned home on Saturday night and Monday night I gave birth to her at home after six hours of almost complete denial of my labor.)

But the point of this story is that I haven’t had a break–an overnight break–away from my children in over three years now, since that time away when I was forty weeks pregnant, give or take a day or two.

On Friday, I am leaving. My husband hatched this plan for me to go away to a hotel for two nights. I’m not going far, but far enough. I’ll be shopping, reading, seeing movies, sleeping, and basking in the silence of solitude.

To say that I’m eager would be an understatement. That’s why I was hoping it was Wednesday, even though it’s just Tuesday. Only three more work days and I’ll be footloose and fancy-free.

I described my father as a somber kind of guy in that Halloween post. And he was when I was a very little girl. But after my parents divorced and we moved in with my dad and stepmom, his wacky side came out.

As proof of this wackiness, I offer this photograph, taken at the same time as a passport photo, about twenty years ago:

And here is me, when I was about two: