Embarking on a business trip often brings a mix of emotions for me. Saying goodbye to my family is always filled with a bit of dread. The moment of departure is fraught with quivering lips and watery eyes, perfectly timed to ensure I’m late leaving the house with a tear-stained collar and a suitcase heavy with guilt. But once I board that plane, everything changes.
As I settle into my seat, I turn off my phone, pop in my earplugs, and—gasp—open a book! A real book, devoid of colorful illustrations or child-rearing advice. After landing, I check into a hotel, a delightful sanctuary where I’m the sole occupant of my room for a night. The quality of the hotel doesn’t matter much; I’m not picky. Whether the sheets are 200-thread count or not, as long as I’m the only one in bed, I’m happy. I can sleep through any noise that isn’t made by a tiny human.
When I wake up after a glorious eight hours sprawled across a king-sized bed—not squeezed between a snoring dog and a kid who kicks like a ninja during the night—I relish the moment. I stretch luxuriously, ignoring the gym clothes I packed with good intentions, and allow myself the pleasure of sinking back into sleep for a delightful ninth hour.
Eventually, I rise, feeling more like myself than I have in years. I turn on the television and catch up on the Today Show. Though I briefly ponder the day’s adventures of Dora and her bilingual friends, I’m eager to dive into real-world events and arm myself with knowledge that extends beyond the Spanish word for cheetah (which is guepardo, in case you were wondering).
Of course, I will call my little munchkins before bed, feigning exhaustion from my “grueling” day of travel (maybe conveniently omitting the smooth flight and first-class upgrade). I’ll express my deep longing to return home, to tuck them in and plant kisses on their sweet heads. But first, I will enjoy a meal at a restaurant, either with fellow adults or in blissful solitude. No one will spill my drink, scatter salt across the table, or fashion spitballs from straw wrappers. I can savor every bite without having to threaten anyone with the loss of a gadget.
Later, I will recline in a bed that won’t be drenched by a midnight visitor with a leaky Pull-Up. There may be a fleeting wish to be home, but then I remember that would mean tending to someone who is dying of thirst, another needing a Band-Aid for an imaginary boo-boo, and yet another crying for a missing snuggie. Alas, those problems are for another night. So instead, I sip on a glass of wine and indulge in shows that I’ve recorded on my DVR but may never finish once I’m back on Snuggie Patrol.
However, after a night or two of this wonderful solitude, I find the silence dull and the bed too spacious. I can hardly wait to return home, arms filled with hugs, kisses, and gifts hastily purchased out of guilt at the airport. Amid the delightful chaos of family life, I’m always overwhelmed with love and excitement to be back where I truly belong.
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In summary, while the challenges of being a traveling parent can be daunting, the moments of solitude and self-care are equally rewarding. Balancing the joy of returning home with the need for personal space is essential in this hectic life of parenting.