I’m sitting alone at the Seattle airport, on my way to a friend’s bachelorette party. I’m crying.
I didn’t cry when my first child, my son, was born. And I didn’t cry when his little sister was born a year and a half later. Sure, I was happy. And I was relieved beyond words that they were both alive and healthy. And, of course, that the physical pain of labor was behind me.
But I didn’t cry—and I hadn’t really expected to, because I’m not much of an occasion crier. For me, tears come from anger, frustration, heartbreak rather than major emotional life events.
Yet here I am, crying in an airport because I miss my kids. I mean I’m not SOBBING but there are tears in my eyes and if I squeezed my eyelids really hard I could get one to fall out. This is the first time I’ve been away alone without them and it is sad and weird and much more emotional than I thought it would be. I’ve been away from my son for about 7 nights total: a few solo sleepovers with his grandparents, a few nights when I took my daughter on a “girls trip,” and two nights with them when his sister was born. I’ve been away from my daughter for two nights total, when my husband and I took a weekend ski trip.
Now I’m going away for three nights with no husband and no kids. And I know: It’s good for me and good for the kiddos to have some time away from each other. I also know: it’s not unique for a mother to miss her kids when she’s away from them. And also: I should take advantage of my time without them, have fun, enjoy myself. I’m sure I will. After I get there. Eventually.
But right now, I’m at loose ends.
I’ve been in airports with my kids many times, and often thought, ‘this is a nightmare. It would be so nice to travel alone.’ Chasing them around, changing diapers in airport bathrooms, trying to get them to nap on the plane, listening to them throw tantrums and cringing with embarrassment as everyone on the plane turns to look.
Now, I have my wish. I’m solo sitting in an airport with a book in my lap and a bag of popcorn next to me. Nobody is asking me for string cheese. Nobody is crying because I won’t let them lick the floor. Nobody is peeing through their pants, sending my husband sprinting through the airport to the gift shop for a replacement pair. And… I’m bored. I’m looking around at the families traveling with children, thinking, this is sad. I wish I was traveling with my little ones. Even as I hear a mom speaking sternly to her toddler: “Colin! Stop running away! I’m counting to five!” I wish it was my little guy pushing the boundaries and my voice trying to set them. Seeing toddlers and babies scurry around me is the thing that’s making me kind of almost cry.
I feel like I do when my kids are at daycare: They drive me crazy when I’m with them, but I miss them like crazy when I’m not.
It’s similar to how I felt a few months back, when I was alone in a hotel room, my husband and daughter sleeping in the room next to me and my son out with his grandparents. I was sort of happy to have alone time, and I took advantage of it by reading a book and taking a solo hot tub, but beyond that, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Then, like now, my arms felt empty. My mind feels suspiciously free of clutter: there are no sippy cups to keep track of, no nap schedules in my brain, no tiny toys. I have one purse and one duffel bag and neither of them contain even one baby bottle or diaper. It took me 10 minutes to pack because all my kids’ stuff was STAYING HOME. The drive to the airport was quiet. Going through security was so smooth it was boring.
I’ll have fun at the bachelorette party; of course I will. I’ll also feel like I have restless leg syndrome, wondering how it’s possible that I’m sitting by a pool and not getting up every 30 seconds to chase a kid who’s about to wobble into the deep end. I’ll be able to go swimming without finding a kid and their life vest in one arm. I’ll only have to put sunscreen on one person and that person won’t scream and wiggle away. I’ll eat dinner without my son insisting I put half my salad and all of my corn on his plate even though he already has his own food and he won’t take a single bite. I’ll wake up because my brain decides it’s time, not because I hear my daughter crying.
Pure luxury. Pure freedom. Pure reminder of everything I have, that even when I’m overwhelmed and stressed and complaining about how HARD it is to bring your kids everywhere, they’re pretty fun and I’m pretty lucky to get to hang out with them.
Maybe next time I go to a bachelorette party, I’ll bring my daughter with me. Afterwards, I’ll write all about how lovely it would have been to travel alone.