Yesterday, I took some "me" time. I'm not talking a couple of hours, here. I'm talking a full day.

To myself.

With no children.

I love children - especially mine, although I'll tell you I prefer other people's because they don't whine "Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommeeeeee!" at me. But a Maven needs a break every now and then, lest she twitch herself into a coma from the stress of daily child rearing.

Thus, last day's morning, I put down all the tools of gremlin taming: camouflage clothing, spray bottle, army net, chain gloves, and my trusty bottle of chloroform, and went off in search of a place that contains little to no people under the age of majority.

Just as I was about to get a lap dance, Fantasia was kind enough to inform me that there is a happy medium when it comes to the kid-free environment. So I thanked her, stuffed a $5 bill in her g-string, and went out for brunch instead.

The Bitches - what the four lovely ladies and I who brunch every couple of months have jokingly called ourselves - met at The Buzz, a downtown restaurant that serves the most amazing morning food. I'm sure they serve amazing other time foods as well, but I wouldn't know. I was too busy scarfing down eggs florentine to ask to see the evening menu. There was great conversation, lots of laughs and far too much coffee. I also learned that some people say 'eggs over lightly' instead of 'over easy,' and that serving staff in Ottawa have no clue what they're talking about.

After brunching with the Bitches, I headed to the maul to brave Sunday shopping crowds for no other reason than I didn't have my boys with me. Frankly, I can handle just about any crowd when I don't have to play 'recover the missing three-year-old.' I didn't buy a thing, as I don't need anything. Well, unless you count a larger television as a 'need.'

Ask me again once my copy of Avatar comes in next week.

Next, I sat across the table from a beautiful friend and drank the best damn americano I've had in a while. Why was it the best? Because I wasn't drinking it in between breaking up fights, picking up pastries that have fallen on the dirty restaurant floor, dealing with crying about said dropped pastries as I usher a sad gremlin to the counter to buy another one I can't really afford because they're incredibly overpriced, passing my iPhone to the child in question so he can play a game while eating his new pastry, and wiping off the sugar and gunk and crap off the screen after all is said and done, wondering if it will work properly again and cursing myself for ever thinking that was a good idea.

It's not like I don't enjoy my children's company most of the time, although I'm sure it sounds that way from the aforementioned scenario. It's just that there's a lot of stressful kid-related stuff going on in our house right now, and I've been feeling worn right down to the bone. Synonyms for this feeling: completely exhausted, emotionally spent, absolutely drained, and about this close to losing my everlovin' shit.

So it's no surprise to me that Relaxa, the goddess of mothers' time off, would have me lock my keys in the van in the Starbucks parking lot when I never, ever do that normally. And with my husband having just arrived with the gremlins at a museum halfway across the city with the only spare set of keys in his pocket, I would be "forced" to spend more time with my coffee friend, and even meet her dad.

This is where the big dick comes in.

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, already. Big Dick is her dad. Little Dick - or Richard - is her brother. And here you thought I was being a pervert.

Heck, if anyone might be a bit of a pervert, it's Big Dick. He was by far the most hilarious octogenarian I've ever met. From the moment I stepped into his house unannounced while awaiting my spouse, he made me feel welcome. He said he had a great story to tell - sexual in nature, of course, like all the best stories are - and talked about how he wanted to decorate the upcoming 'couples alone time' room in his wife's nursing home with a decor acquired partially from a sex store and partially from a funeral home.

And now I know where my friend gets all her crazy from: Big Dick. Enough said.

Eventually, my gremlins had enough of the museum, I was rescued by Geekster and his spare set of keys, and I came home. But not without a solid seven hours where I was reminded what it was like to be The Maven, and not Mom - just for a little while. A couple of hours off is nice, but the stress of doing this mom thing full-time only starts to melt away before I need to go home and immerse myself into the sea of chaos once again. Having a good chunk of time - something I haven't had in a while - was a sorely needed.

The batteries are recharged ( emotional batteries, not sex toy batteries. Your mind and the gutter need to stop meeting like this) and I'm feeling significantly better about my world today. Less anxious, more patient, and ready to pick up that spray bottle again and get back to parenting.

...Excuse me? We're not supposed to use a spray bottle? When did that happen? Next someone is going to say nets are a bad idea, too. What is this world coming to?! I'm off to get my chloroform.