I vividly recall my first day back at work after the birth of my first daughter. It had been six weeks and four days since her arrival. My husband volunteered to take her to the sitter, as I doubted my ability to handle it. After showering her with kisses and gently caressing her face for what felt like an eternity in the car, I finally shut the door. My husband glanced at me through the open window, asking, “Are you alright?”
I nodded, though my heart was breaking, and he drove away. I stood there, reminiscent of Mae Whitman’s character in Hope Floats, feeling desperate for them to return. My arms longed to hold my baby again, and I yearned to chase after them, but I remained frozen, tears streaming down my cheeks. In that moment, I promised myself that I would never willingly be apart from my child again.
Nearly twelve years have passed since that day, but the emotions remain fresh. My husband and I have managed to carve out a few overnight getaways, which, while enjoyable, feel eerily quiet without our children. Our dinners in fancy restaurants, workouts at the gym, and uninterrupted conversations remind us of our early days together. When we finally pick up our daughters, we are rejuvenated.
A few years back, I prepared to attend a writing conference. My daughters, visibly upset, clung to my legs, their eyes filled with tears despite our earlier discussions. I bit my lip, torn between my desire to comfort them and my need to go. After a prolonged struggle, my husband nudged me out the door. The drive to the train station felt interminable, as did the four-hour journey to New York City, where I fought back tears. I felt like I needed a badge that read, “I have 3 kids!” and worried that anyone who saw me traveling without them would judge me as a bad mother.
Their absence felt like phantom limbs, and as I walked through the hotel, I half-expected to see them in my reflection. I returned from the blog conference a year later, filled with relief.
Just last week, after a family vacation in Washington, I headed to California for another conference while my husband took the girls back to New York. They were excited about my nomination for an award and had even helped me choose my outfit. My eldest daughter kindly packed a silver purse for me, saying, “So you’ll think of me and have me with you.”
This trip felt different. I was eager to reconnect with friends and to enjoy a night of glamour. I took my time pampering myself with hotel lotion and woke up early to run without the worry of waking anyone. While I missed my kids, I also relished the rare opportunity to be alone.
After twelve years of parenting, I’ve learned the importance of taking time for myself. I want to be a positive role model for my daughters, and if I don’t prioritize my well-being, what kind of example am I setting? Yes, I still feel the pull to be home; that longing never fully disappears. But did I relish the opportunity to spend two nights in California, soaking up writing insights from people I admire? Absolutely.
Will I ever be free of that phantom ache, questioning whether I’m being selfish? Probably not. The bond formed during pregnancy, whether physical or emotional, endures. After longing for that tiny hand in mine, part of me always hesitates to let go.
Yet, we must embrace these small journeys. We learn to come and go, repeatedly, sharing stories of our adventures and reaffirming our love for one another. These experiences are practice for the day when it will be my children embarking on their own journeys, leaving me behind.
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In summary, the journey of motherhood involves a continuous cycle of letting go and reconnecting. Each small trip away from home prepares us for the eventual moment when our children will step out into the world on their own.