Embarking on a business trip often stirs a blend of dread and exhilaration within me. The farewell to my family is always bittersweet, fraught with the familiar image of quivering lips and tear-filled eyes. These moments seem meticulously timed to ensure I leave with a damp collar and a suitcase heavy with guilt. But once I board that plane, everything shifts.
Once settled, I power down my phone, slip in my earplugs, and dare I say it, dive into a book! An actual book, devoid of vibrant illustrations or child-rearing tips. After landing, I find myself in a hotel—an oasis where I am the sole occupant of my room for the night. It doesn’t need to be luxurious; I’m not picky. As long as I’m the only one in the bed, I’m content. The rumble of the air conditioning or the incessant toilet may not bother me; I can easily sleep through any noise not made by a small child. When I wake up after a glorious eight hours in a king-sized bed—free from a fidgeting toddler or a dog that snores like a freight train—I stretch luxuriously and roll over for an extra hour of sleep, blissfully ignoring the gym clothes I dutifully packed.
Eventually, I rise, feeling more human than I have in years. I turn on the television to catch up on real-world events, briefly pondering the escapades of a certain bilingual explorer, but ultimately arming myself with knowledge more pertinent than the Spanish word for cheetah (which, by the way, is guepardo).
Of course, I make sure to call my little ones before bedtime, sharing tales of my exhausting day of travel—perhaps glossing over the smooth flight and first-class upgrade—and expressing my eagerness to tuck them in and smell their sweet little heads one last time. However, first, I indulge in a meal at a restaurant, either in delightful solitude or with fellow adults. No one is there to spill my drink, scatter salt across the table, or craft spitballs from straw wrappers. I savor every bite without the need to threaten anyone with the loss of their electronics.
Later, I recline in a bed that won’t be dampened by a midnight visitor with a leaky Pull-Up. I may fleetingly wish I were home, but then I remember that would entail someone racing downstairs for a glass of water, followed by urgent requests for Band-Aids or a missing snuggie. Alas, those dilemmas are not mine to solve tonight. Instead, I sip on a glass of wine and indulge in binge-watching shows that I’ve recorded, knowing I may never have time to finish them once I’m back on Snuggie Patrol.
But after a night or two of this indulgent peace, the quiet becomes monotonous, and the bed feels too vast. Soon enough, I rush home, arms filled with hugs, kisses, and last-minute gifts bought out of guilt from the airport. Surrounded by the delightful chaos of home, I’m enveloped by love and excitement, reveling in the warmth of family once more.
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In summary, while the life of a traveling parent is filled with its share of challenges and joys, the moments of solitude can be refreshing. Yet, the irresistible pull of home always beckons me back.