Leaving my family behind for a business trip is a blend of anxiety and thrill. I dread the farewells, where quivering lips and teary eyes threaten to delay my departure, often resulting in a tear-stained collar and a suitcase filled with guilt. Yet, once I step aboard the plane, everything changes.
On the flight, I switch off my phone, slip in my earplugs, and—get this—actually pick up a book! Not a children’s tale with colorful pictures or parenting advice, but a genuine novel. Upon landing, I head to a hotel—a glorious sanctuary where I’m the sole occupant for an entire night. It doesn’t need to be luxurious; I’m not picky. The thread count of the sheets is irrelevant as long as I’m the only one in the bed. I can sleep through any noise that isn’t produced by a tiny human.
When I finally wake up after a blissful eight hours in a spacious king-sized bed, not trapped between a snoring partner and a child who seems to kick like a martial arts expert, I stretch and yawn, ignoring the gym clothes I packed but won’t use. I relish the rare moment of feeling human again. I turn on the TV to catch the Today Show, briefly wondering about the latest escapades of that adventurous cartoon character, but I’m more focused on catching up with real-world news—far more pertinent than knowing the Spanish word for cheetah (it’s “guepardo,” in case you were curious).
Of course, I make sure to call the little ones before bed, spinning tales of my exhausting travel day (skipping over the details of the smooth flight and first-class upgrade) and expressing my eagerness to return and tuck them in, inhaling their sweet scents as I kiss them goodnight. But first, I savor a meal—either with fellow adults or in delightful solitude. No one spills my drink, douses the table in salt, or turns straw wrappers into projectiles. I can enjoy my food without having to threaten anyone with a loss of their favorite screen time.
Later, I’ll luxuriate on a bed that won’t be invaded by a midnight visitor with a leaky Pull-Up. I may briefly wish to be home, but then I remember the nightly struggles: someone needing water, another requiring a Band-Aid for an imaginary boo-boo, and the endless quest for a beloved snuggie. Tonight, those problems are not mine to solve. Instead, I’ll sip a glass of wine and binge-watch shows I’ve recorded but may never finish once I’m back in the chaos of parenting.
After a night or two of this indulgent peace, the silence becomes monotonous, and the expansive bed feels too vast. I rush home, arms filled with hugs, kisses, and gifts hastily purchased at the airport to ease my guilt. Back in the whirlwind of everyday life, I’m overwhelmed by love and excitement, reminding me why I cherish the chaos of home.
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In summary, being a traveling parent is a mix of longing and liberation. While the separation is tough, the moments of solitude and self-care are invaluable. However, nothing compares to the joy of returning home, where love and laughter await.
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