I was expecting to miss my babies a lot while I was gone. I steeled myself against the missing. Knowing that it would come. And on the third day, I really missed them. I was teary. I moped. I ached for them. And the 7 days that were still to come, stretched out before me like they would never end. And I was miserable at the thought of being in an amazing place and not being able to actually enjoy it. But I couldn’t help it. And I couldn’t see any way I could feel anything but awful.
So I did what any self respecting mother would do I pestered my mother on the other side of the globe to tell me how they were doing. And they were fine. Beyond fine. They were good. They were happy. They were sleeping. They were having fun. Suddenly, I was too. That was all it took to not feel miserable.
I didn’t miss them for the rest of the trip. I thought of them often. I saw so many things that they would have loved, especially Riley. But I didn’t miss them. I was surprised by that. I wondered at it. What it said about me as a mother. But I was also grateful for it. I was able to be adventurous without regret.
It was only when I came home again that I realised how much I had missed them. How deep the missing had gone. But still I was grateful, that all that time it had been hidden from myself.