Leaving my family behind for a work trip is always a mix of excitement and a bit of dread. I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness as I say goodbye, often resulting in quivering lips and teary eyes, perfectly timed to make me late for my flight. But then, I step on that plane.
Once I’m airborne, I switch off my phone, plug in my earplugs, and gasp—I actually dive into a book! A real book, with no bright pictures or chapters on how to manage a toddler tantrum. Upon arrival, I head to a hotel—a wonderful hotel—where I get to revel in the luxurious solitude of my own room for an entire night. It doesn’t need to be five stars; I’m not picky. A bed is a bed, and as long as I’m the only one in it, I’m happy. I could care less if the AC rumbles or the toilet runs; I’ve learned to sleep through anything that isn’t a tiny human’s whimper.
When I finally wake up, feeling more like my old self than I have in years, I turn on the TV to catch the latest on the Today Show. I might briefly wonder what adventures Dora is up to today, but then I’m back to real-world events, armed with more knowledge than just the Spanish translation for cheetah (it’s guepardo, by the way).
Of course, I’ll make sure to call the little rascals before bed, sharing my “gruelling” travel day (perhaps leaving out the part about my smooth flight and first-class upgrade) and how I can’t wait to be home to tuck them in and smell their sweet little heads goodnight. But first, I’ll treat myself to a meal at a restaurant—either with friends or in blissful solitude. No spills, no salt storms across the table, no straw wrapper spitballs. Just me, savoring a meal without having to threaten anyone with a loss of screen time.
Later, I’ll relax in a bed that won’t be soaked by a midnight visitor with a leaky Pull-Up. I might briefly wish I were home, but then I remember that would mean someone would come downstairs needing a drink, then a Band-Aid for an imaginary boo-boo, and shortly after, they’d be crying for a lost snuggie. So instead, I’ll pour myself a glass of wine and binge-watch shows I’ve recorded on my DVR that I may never finish once I’m back on Snuggie Patrol.
But after a night or two of this glorious peace, the quiet becomes a little monotonous, and the bed feels too spacious. Before I know it, I’m rushing back home, armed with hugs, kisses, and gifts I hastily picked out at the airport out of guilt. Once I’m back in the delightful chaos of my family, I’m overwhelmed with love and excitement, always happy to be home.
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In summary, being a traveling parent is a whirlwind of emotions—dread at leaving but excitement at the freedom. Yet, nothing compares to the joy of returning home to the chaos and love of family.