I’m now counting down the days to when the total silence in my house can be replaced by the sounds of my children and my dog (yes, even my dog is on vacation). I have had several days filled with endless episodes of Dexter and aimless wandering around my house. I enjoyed the first few, and very quickly started to sink a little bit into a dark place from which I feel like (because I am) I’m literally watching life pass me by. I’m watching my friends travel, return from trips only to disappear on more adventures. They are living their lives in techni-colour while I am living mine in slow motion, in black and white.
Talking to my children about their daily adventures while they spend 18 days at a family cottage 18 hours away from me is wonderful, but I can’t hug them or smell their hair or kiss their faces when they go to sleep at night, and although the distinct lack of mess and noise in my house is lovely at times, I am actually a little saddened when I don’t step over or bend down to pick up my youngest’s clothes that he inevitably sheds immediately upon arriving home. Every time I pass their bedroom door I stop and imagine my eldest stretched out with his nose in a book. I will admit to having smelled their pillows at least once over the past week.
It has now been at least a week since I have broken up a fight, solved an argument or counted down from 3 in full-on mama mode. I haven’t had a pile-up snuggle fest, haven’t clipped finger and toenails while marveling at how disgusting they manage to get in a week. I haven’t cursed the ever-growing mountain of dirty laundry and I haven’t repeated a question or a direction more than twice. I haven’t closed myself in my room to do yoga breathing to find my happy place, because I realize that a very big part of my happy place is on vacation, wake-boarding, canoeing, swimming, sunning and owling. And while I am very happy for them and I want them to have their adventures, I am ready now for my babies to come home. Counting the days.