Which is not there, where I usually am, but here, where I rarely am, but am thrilled to be so. Here. Clear?
The airport was a breeze, mostly because I checked EVERYTHING but my purse (deliciously void of all things baby), a book and the hat I’m currently knitting. I helped a fellow mom at the security checkpoint, assisting the juggle of diaper bag, stroller, shoes, toddler, etc as she explained that it was the first time traveling alone with her daughter while pregnant with baby number two. She was rocking the house and I told her so, which was a good thing since I ended up sitting next to her on the plane. Distracting her daughter and talking birth politics for the hour and a half we were in the air was a delight, especially since when the toddler got cranky not a single person expected me to put my boob in that child’s mouth. Hell, it would have been downright inappropriate to do so, and that made me so very happy.
Once off the plane I found myself watching the bags go round baggage claim, thrilled that in a few moments I’d get to see one of my dearest friends in the whole world. She was right out there, waiting for my call from the cell phone lot and I had to restrain myself from jumping up and down like a dork. We grabbed a quick lunch before she had to run off to work and I settled into her house to relax. In the last three hours, I’ve eaten ice cream, watched mindless TV, done what needs to be done when you are a breastfeeding mama without a baby, taken a hot bath in a very comfortable tub and read blogs with wild abandon. I’ve only thought about my children about a dozen times. But I know they’re either fine or very drugged. How do I know such a thing? Mark sent me this on my cellphone:
Now I can continue the nonstop hedonist fest, knowing they are comfy (or drugged!) and I don’t have to worry about them. Well, at least not for another five minutes.