I love my two kids and my job, but sometimes I need a break—not an hour folding laundry, but a day just for me. As everything started to go wrong, I wondered: Can this “me day” be saved?

For months I’ve been attempting to take some time for myself. But something always got in the way: a crisis at work, a neighbor’s barbecue, a sick kid. I wasn’t going for anything epic, like a spa weekend with the girls. As a mom of two who works long hours as an event planner, I just needed a day to jump off the runaway train that is my life and restore a bit of energy and perspective. I was thinking a manicure, a little shopping, even a movie. This was part of a vow I’d made after a false-alarm health scare to take better care of myself. Realizing that I live in a constant state of trying to catch up, keep in touch and get where I’m supposed to be, I began plotting my “me day.” Here’s how it turned out.

12:06 a.m.

I hit Send on a sick-day email to work. I would have taken a personal day but didn’t want to risk my boss denying my request. After fabricating a food-poisoning story, I dream about which color nail polish I’ll choose.

5:27 a.m.

My 4-year-old has to go to the bathroom. “I can’t go unless you tell me a story.” He outright rejects my offer of one million dollars to go solo.

5:37 to 7:30 a.m.

I can’t fall back to sleep, so I decide to get an early start on my special day. A blur of pouring cereal, packing lunches and finding missing shoes is punctuated by a “Hey, you’re not dressed” from my husband. “I’m taking the day,” I say as I shove him out the door. Silence. My “me day” has begun. I enjoy a cup of coffee and flip through the newspaper.

8:01 a.m.

My BlackBerry vibrates. “I know you don’t feel well but…” writes my boss. Flower arrangements for a client breakfast are MIA.

8:02 to 9:31 a.m.

I chase down the flowers, listen to an angry client and switch off the BlackBerry.

9:45 a.m.

I arrive at the nail salon and select Hot Mamma red. My nails are still wet when the call comes from the principal.

10:05 to 10:15 a.m.

I listen to the details of my 11-year-old’s detention-worthy deed. A promise of proper punishment gets me off the phone, but my nails are smudged.

12:30 p.m.

Dreams of a leisurely lunch are smashed when my friend Kristen pleads too much paperwork.

1:00 to 3:12 p.m.

A call to a backup friend backfires. As she rants about how crazy her life is, I polish off a jar of peanut butter.

4:20 p.m.

I head to the mall. A cute dress makes me look like a horse, so I skip shopping for a spin class.

6:03 p.m.

I listen to the seven voicemails my husband has left with a laundry list of chores since “you’re taking a day and have some free time.”

6:07 p.m.

Fantasizing about being single, I call my husband to remind him that he’s in charge of homework, dinner, baths and bedtime.

7:00 p.m.

The only movie not sold out is in 3-D. I pass.

7:10 p.m.

I buy a bunch of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc and a romantic comedy DVD before heading home.

9:02 p.m.

I refill my glass, giggle at the antics of Sandra Bullock and congratulate myself on salvaging my “me day.” I’ll book another—soon. Because if something’s gotta give, it’s not going to be me.