I just returned from a short vacation, not only without the kids, but – for the very first time – having left them home alone without adult supervision.  Before the speed dialers hit the DSS hotline, I guess I should point out that 50% of my dependents are, in fact, (cough) adults.  Well, per their official *paperwork, sure they are.  Legally I was good.

Quasi-adults or not, I’m not going to say it was without stress.  Quite the contrary, in the days leading up to our departure I think my hair started falling out more than normal and a queasiness in my belly was brewing.  Graphic headlines taunted my dreams:  Selfish Parents Perish in Plane Crash …  Kids Left Alone Arrested for Stealing Snacks, Claim Partying Parents Left No Food …  Party House Sees $20k in Damages for Negligent Owners.

Good God.  What was I thinking?

For the record, I challenge my husband frequently on daily matters both vital and trivial – you name it, I will argue it:  parenting issues, furniture-placement, even which appetizers to order in restaurants.   But when he was doing his best to convince me of a solo jaunt more than six months ago, well, it didn’t feel like much of a fighting matter because there seemed to be more pros than cons.  We’d gotten a super cheap deal on both lodging and flights, our eldest would be turning 21 by summer’s end, and the remaining 3 were primarily self-sufficient (bathroom hygiene notwithstanding but I imagine with teenagers that issue won’t be disappearing anytime soon). Besides, our neighborhood watch is stellar and my kids knew it:  my phone would rival the Batphone should any shenanigans arise.

But six months came quickly and by the time I should’ve started packing, I still wasn’t so sure I was comfortable with the decision.

“Maybe we should rethink?” I asked, my eyes landing on a yogurt container under the couch.

“My parents left me alone for a week when I was a junior in high school,” my husband countered.  Ahhh. The ol’ Unsupervised ’80s defense. Lucky to be alive myself after that era, he was definitely not helping.

So I busied myself doing everything in my power to lessen any problems that might arise. I cooked for days, typed and retyped a multitude of lists, texted every neighbor within earshot of my address and threatened every one of my kids with their own personal Achilles Heel of punishment.  If Project X was going to happen in my absence, everyone’s livelihoods were going down, one body at a time, dammit.  It would be a race to the rat-out of epic proportion.

So we grabbed a couple of friends who like us, never came across a Happy Hour they couldn’t enjoy, and hopped over to Myrtle Beach for three days.

Now, Myrtle Beach is a fine and lovely place.  It is also – in the middle of August – like lounging on the sun (hence their need for Happy Hours in South Carolina.)

And three days isn’t a particularly long time – especially when you’re on the clock of Only Got Three Days! – but hitting the ground running upon arrival helps.

We sat our sleep deprived selves in one beach chair after another (by day) and one bar stool after another (by night) and amassed some pretty memorable laughs in a mere 72 hours.

The kids called every so often and only one questioning text came in from the neighborhood watch.  When I realized the house wasn’t going up in flames and no one seemed to be killing each other I had to (popular song reference ahead) let it go.

We had a rental car but we jumped into nightly cabs regardless to do our part to be responsible.  Turns out, my kids were doing theirs.

When we arrived back my daughter (19) audibly sighed with relief when she got in from work.  “I am sooo glad you’re home,” she said, slumping down on the couch with me.  Awwwww, poor thing. This responsibility thing is exhausting, isn’t it?

My middle son (15) couldn’t wait to show me something cool.

“Mom, come here, check this out.”  He was giddy.

He tapped the centerpiece fruit bowl, which contained a frightfully blackened  banana and what appeared to be a couple of apples from the Clinton administration.  Three thousand fruit flies shot up and swarmed crazily above it.

Super. Guess they found a new place to hang when the yogurt was taken over by ants?

Note to self:  “Throw out rotting fruit” needs to get typed onto a list next time.

Who am I kidding – I’m not sure if or when there’ll be a next time. I’m fairly certain none of them even looked at my lists.

Besides, I need to wait until my hair starts growing back in before even thinking about it.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Huff Post.  She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook  &  @Eyerollingmom on Instagram.  Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found  here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)