Jan
8
I’m back home again and I have all these things I’d like to talk about, like how fantastically great it was to see the kids (and then how instantly overwhelming and tiring it was, like being suddenly dropped back into the middle of some sort of triathlon-in-progress); how I’ll be daydreaming for weeks about the fries at Hotel Utah; how I’m mulling over the fact that all my female coworkers got hit on at Macworld but I didn’t, like not even a single solitary appreciative glance, much less an awkward proposition, and what the hell, have I . . . have I lost my geek appeal?; how surprisingly luxurious a first-class seat on Virgin Airlines is, so nice I actually sort of wished the flight was a bit longer just so I could more thoroughly enjoy all that leg room; and how after that freak snowfall Seattle is now in the midst of some sort of epic, disastrous flooding and it makes a person wonder what’s next, swarm of locusts or hail of toads or WHAT — but the thing that’s first and foremost on my mind is this: Riley has pooped on the toilet two days in a row now, once last night basically under Mom’s-not-here-to-save-you duress from his father and once tonight on his own with a grin on his face. Tomorrow? I’m throwing him a Poop Party, complete with cake (chocolate, natch) and ice cream and many rousing performances of Happy PoopDay to You, and boy oh boy, the thought that we might possibly be seeing the beginning of a new stage of life where only ONE kid routinely dumps in his pants makes me so giddy I can hardly stand it.
Jan
5
The nicest thing about being away from my home and my family is the opportunity to miss them. I can understand when people say they could never bear to be away from their kids, and at the same time I think, really? I mean, have you tried it? Because it’s kind of nice, you know?
I don’t just mean the escape from parental drudgery, although let’s not lie, the chance to savor a meal — even a room service sandwich, or maybe especially a room service sandwich (IT HAD BACON) — without bolting it like a panicked wolf while simultaneously spoon-feeding a baby and fetching HEY MOMMY? MOMMY? MOMMY? MORE MILK PLEASE for a 3-year-old is fairly pleasant.
More specifically, I mean the opportunity to lie back in a quiet environment and just think about the kids. Just to conjure up their perfect faces and enjoy happy thoughts about them and ache a little — and sometimes a lot — for their presence. It’s nice, in a bittersweet sort of way. A safe way, I suppose, a way where you know you’ll be home in a couple days and while your arms miss the warm heavy weight of the baby and your ears miss the impish chatter of the toddler, this is only a temporary absence, and for now the room is hushed and your mind is free to think, hey, goddamn but I love my kids.
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