Last week I spent two nights away for work. It was the first time I’ve been away from the little boy – and really only the third time I’ve been away from Scarlett – and it was kind of liberating but a little emotional at the same time.
I enjoyed the ease with which I left the ‘house’ each day (room service was also very helpful). I enjoyed the guilt free glass of wine and fine dining. I didn’t enjoy the bed or the waking at night expecting to be woken by cries for mummy.
As much as I enjoyed the autonomy and the sense of calm, I often thought fondly of the chaos that must have been taking place at home without me.
The boy survived with cow’s milk and a bit of expressed milk and Scarlett barely noticed I was gone. I had planned to get home before the kids were in bed so I could smother them with kisses, but a delayed flight and bad traffic didn’t allow it. When I finally got home I snuck in to give Scarlett a little snuggle and got Xavier up for a feed (I had lumpy boobs – the pump just doesn’t cut it) but they didn’t even notice I was there. The next day it was like I was never gone.
I think I secretly missed them more than I’ll admit.