I’m on a plane alone, returning from a work trip, and I wish my kids were with me.
I know; it’s shocking to me, too. I WANT my 3 yr old and almost 2 yr old to be on a flight with me? A five hour, full flight in the middle of nap time? Yes.
It’s because I miss them. I just walked back to the bathroom and passed two toddlers, one of them poking his dad and one of them sleeping on her mom’s lap, and i just thought… I wish my son was poking me in the side right now. I wish my daughter was lying her drowsy little head on my chest. When I drove to the airport to go on this trip three days ago, I actually got tears in my eyes at the prospect of being separated from the little twerps for three whole sleeps.
I survived and even enjoyed myself on the trip. But I kept thinking that my enjoyment wasn’t at 100%; missing the kids was holding back a few percentage points of enjoyment. Of course I wouldn’t bring my kids on a work trip, but still. A little (big) piece (two pieces) of me was missing, to be the most cliche of all cliches.
Next week, we’re going on a family vacation. I’ll get to have two plane rides and a few long drives with my two toddlers. Classic case of ‘be careful what you wish for,’ right? It’ll be miserable. I’ll be wishing I could sit on the plane, sipping sparkling water and reading my book in peace, instead of doing literally everything I can think of to entertain two young children. I’ll be jealous of my past self, the one who wasn’t refereeing toy fights and keeping the kids from screaming and bugging their plane neighbors and passing out kid snacks every three minutes.
But then, the next time I fly alone, I’ll be wishing I was passing out kid snacks every three minutes.
Nothing I’m saying is new; I even wrote about it the last time (i.e. the only other time) I went on a trip without my kids. But the weird double life thing feels visceral.