I enjoy reading the stories in your magazine each month, but I never thought something like that could happen to me until a few nights ago, when I stepped out of my sheltered, stay-at-home-mom life and took a flying leap into the world of MOMS GONE WILD.

For several years, many of my social interactions stemmed from an intimate internet community of women. Late one evening, while 'chatting' online, a plan was hatched for a weekend getaway in Tempe, Arizona. While the other mamas made plans, I ruled it out immediately. I had never left my children before. Money was tight. My husband was not likely to be supportive. It seemed impossible.

As I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor a few days later, pot of macaroni and cheese in one hand and a sippy cup in the other, listening to the cacophonous whining coming from my impatient children, a vision planted itself in my brain.

I was dressed in a flirty summer dress that didn't include nursing openings. I was squirming in my seat as a delectable plate of food was placed in front of me. I savored my food, and smiled benevolently at my companions, occasionally tossing out a well received, witty remark.

I shook my head violently as I rinsed the plates at the sink. "That's it," I announced to the faucet. "I'm going." As the kids napped, I purchased my flights, and booked my hotel room. My husband registered a half-hearted protest, but wisely interpreted the crazed look in my eyes as "VACATION BOUND, SUCKAH!"

Eager to book my room quickly, I gave them the wrong dates by an entire week. I blame this on lack of sleep and all available brain space being occupied by the lyrics to "The Wheels On The Bus" and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." A few phone calls netted me an executive suite and a favorite buddy to share the room.

One of the mamas decided that we all needed tiaras, and loaded her suitcase full of glittery regal-ness. Not to be undone, I decided that we needed feather boas as well. I had two-dozen feather boas shipped straight to the hotel. As I packed my bag the night before, I was nervous. All the what-ifs crowded my head, and made it tough to sleep.

Kissing my family goodbye the next morning, I wiped away tears and turned the key. The car sprang to life and as I rounded the corner from my house, I turned up the volume on the stereo. Apparently, the husband had been listening to Guns N Roses. As I howled along with the first few lines of "Paradise City," I suddenly let out a war whoop and shot my fist into the air.

I was met at the airport by several other incoming mamas. Together, we descended on a local restaurant to meet up with earlier arrivals. Most of the other women had brought spouses and children along. As I made the rounds, I was struck by how gorgeous each of these women were. Celebrating my first night out without my children, I ordered a gigantic drink and found myself giggling and hugging people left and right.

We retired to the hotel, where my suitemate and I picked up our keys and the box of feather boas. When we joined the rest of the gang, the party was in full swing. A standard hotel room full of giggling women in tiaras, eating chocolate fondue greeted us with cheers, and when we handed out the boas, many vampy photos were taken. Sultry looks were thrown at the husbands, who stood en masse at the far end of the room, herding the children behind them. What next? Would the tops come off? In that we were mostly nursing mothers, you could bank on it. Woo!

The following day was spent wandering an urban art festival in small groups. We meandered about, enjoying corn dogs (quick, take a picture of me biting this corn dog!) piña coladas, funnel cakes, beer and frozen, chocolate covered bananas on a stick (Ooh! Look at me bite the banana! I’m dirrrrrty! Take a picture!) We returned to the hotel where we lolled by the pool and drank some more, while swapping slightly naughty stories.

As dark fell, we decided to return to our room for the evening. By virtue of my poor planning, we had ended up with a suite that included a full conference table, living room and a large screen TV. We ordered pizza to be delivered, and sent runners down to the bar for another round. The pizza boy was grinning ear to ear as we bedecked him in boas and tiaras and made him pose on the table. The husbands and children grew tired and they returned to their rooms, leaving just the mamas to carry on.

We changed into our pajamas and partied on into the wee hours. There may have been a pillow fight, in white cotton panties and babydoll nighties. I'm not saying. With our flights leaving at 9 am the next morning, my suitemate and I crawled into our king-sized bed, where we passed the final few hours before dawn in a happy stupor. When we pulled our luggage out the next morning, the bounty of feathers that had dropped from the boas rose in cheerful little puffs in our wake, a final salute to crazy dames.

Back at home, I gave out presents and kisses. I felt wonderful. There was a spring in my step, and a twinkle in my eye. I felt like I had gotten away with something.

Two weeks later, I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test, in shock. My youngest child, as best as we can figure, was conceived right before I left town. Shockingly, we couldn’t remember if we had even, uh, been together. With all the confusion, my husband declared that he was never letting me go out of town again, and I informed my suitemate that she was the “co-mother” of our Tempe Love Child.

True to his word, it’s been almost three years since that wild weekend. I’m ready for another vacation – but I’m thinking I better bring the husband and leave off with the miracle boas, lest I spontaneously reproduce.