permissionI had an interesting conversation the other night about how, as women, we make ourselves ask permission for things and we become resentful because our husbands don’t.

Please understand that I truly have the most supportive husband in the entire world. Known fact. Didn’t bat an eye when I asked if I could go surfing in El Salvador in December. Didn’t even flinch when I asked if I could leave him with three kids for a week to go and sing vocal harmonies with Bobby McFerrin at an upstate NYC hippie resort. And the time I left him with same said kids to go to South Africa for ten days. Twice.

But do you see the catch? I asked. I asked for permission. I asked if it was ok. Sure, it’s the polite thing to do. But I do believe that we ladies feel the need to get this permission. My husband and I run the same business but I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me he was going somewhere without asking. And the group of moms I was chatting to, some working, some stay-at-home, all agreed that they do the same thing. And sometimes even don’t allow themselves the liberties they like their husbands to have.

So today I booked a one day trip to a conference, and I didn’t ask. I put on my big girl panties and registered and even booked my flight without anyone holding my hand. And it felt weird. And good. And weird. Like I was doing something behind someone’s back. And when I was all booked, I went and told my husband that I had booked a trip next week, and he said, “Oh, that sounds like a good thing to go to. Good idea.” Simple as that.