My three-year-old son had spring break from preschool this week. Unfortunately, my sister-in-law, who usually watches him for a few hours twice a week, was unable to do so one of the days, most of his buddies were on vacation and so unavailable for playdates, and his Daddy had to work late almost every night--meaning it was just me and my boy all day, every day, all week.

Did I mention he also had pinkeye?

Given his propensity for running around in public places naked, I considered sending him to Boca Raton or some such place to find like-minded spring breakers, but I would have had to chaperone him, and few things frighten me more than hours spent alone with a preschooler than hours spent alone with college students acting like preschoolers.

So Monday morning, after determining that his eye seemed better and so probably did not require a doctor's visit (which was unfortunate, because that would have filled a few hours nicely) but that I probably should keep him quarantined anyway, we ventured into the attic to bring down summer clothes (yep, already time here), made cornbread from scratch, picked mint from the yard and made it into tea, emptied and refilled the dishwasher, washed the pots and pans, and ate our cornbread and tea.

I was exhausted. I looked at the clock. It was 10:30 am.

He was bouncing on the couch, yelling, "Mama, let's DO something!"

It was going to be a long, long week.

So when he brought out Chitty Chitty Bang-Bang, I had the usual internal struggle: He should be playing, using his imagination! He should be out in the fresh air! Building! Painting! Coloring! Not rotting his brain in front of the idiot box with a movie he's seen a thousand times. We're pretty strict about what he's allowed to watch and how much TV per day--at least we try to be. We even selected his preschool, a Waldorf school, because (among other wonderful things) it asks parents to reduce or eliminate media from their children's worlds, believing that kids need time and space to be kids rather than be pushed into consumerism and groupthink.

Five books, three original stories (many of which feature my own creations, HuffaFuffa Dinosaur and his Magic Mushroom Patch), and a few bouts of Mean Pirate and Hide and Seek later, I couldn't take it anymore. I just am not equipped to entertain a young child for hours and hours without assistance. He's not old enough to read, doesn't nap anymore, and doesn't have siblings. He is talkative, smart, and creative with lots and LOTS of energy, and so requires a lot of stimulation and input. But I was giving out.

So out came Chitty. And Totoro. And Caillou, Curious George, Elmo, and all the rest. He watched a shitload of TV this week.

We also had trips to the zoo, worked in the garden, built pillow forts, talked about where babies come from (!!), visited several playgrounds, did lots of chores together, cooked and cleaned, and read innumerable books. So why do I feel so guilty admitting that I need that break that TV provides?

While he watches, I can read a magazine, check email, even just have my own thoughts for a few moments...which sometimes stretch out to an hour, then two, or more. All the while, a part of my brain screams, "You're RUINING him! Turn off that TV!"

Of course, the rest of my brain is deeply engrossed in Rolling Stone. Who knew Hulk Hogan was so deep?

Afterwards, we both seem relaxed and refreshed: he got some all-kid, all-the-time programming without anyone trying to push him to do something more adult-friendly; I got some all-adult reading done without anyone begging me to be his horsie. We have far fewer evening tantrums when we've had that afternoon break from each other, allowing us to get through Round 2: Dinner, Bath, and Bedtime that much more smoothly. 

And once he's asleep, my husband and I plop on the couch, remote in hand, to catch up on Heroes and Lost. Because sometimes we want someone to tell us a story, too.