Why I want to miss my kids

I’ve just done something ridiculous. But my goodness, it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels like the best decision I EVER MADE.

Tomorrow night, I am skipping off to a hotel room – in my own town, no less – for the sole purpose of getting a full night’s sleep. You know when you start off by joking about something, and then you’re not joking, you’re hinting, and then you’re not even hinting, you’re getting this thing done, don’t argue with me? It happened like that.

I love these boys. They do things to my insides that chocolate brownie never managed. I could have a hundred conversations with Henry and that ‘how are you, sir?’ routine he does would make me laugh every time. And oh, my little Teds. He waits so much longer for my attention than Henry ever had to, and does it with such grace; as soon as anyone looks at him the most ludicrous double-chinned grin takes over his face. What a dreamboat.

I love them. And they are running me into the ground. Four months of broken nights and busy days, where I live inside minute after frantic minute, have frazzled me silly. So Timothy is doing tomorrow’s night shift and I have big, big plans of a bath, a book and an 8pm bedtime. I can remind myself that I have a body of my own and a self to myself. There is a sphere in which I can move without needing to be defined by who I am to others.

This all seems like a lot of philosophizing about an evening painting my nails in the Hilton. But I will drive back on Saturday morning and find I have made enough space to miss them. And I’ll run back upstairs to find their faces look like new.

Oh, aren’t you just lovely? I will think. Aren’t you just a many-splendored thing?

Missing a little – a very little – is good for the soul. Even if only from across town.

Joined at the hip. Or the hand, more often.