I’m in the airport.
That’s not particularly notable. I’ve spent a fair bit of time in airplanes, airports - travelling to and through them. Since BABY was born, we’ve traveled a fair bit. We’ve got the hang of maneuvering through airplanes and airports with strollers and car seats, and baby bags and bottles. Throughout the years I’ve done my fair share of business travel for work.
But this is week was the first time I have traveled for work since having the kid. This story is less about airports and airplanes, it’s more about baggage. Of the emotional variety. Because although I don’t have to worry about gate checked strollers and bottles in carry-ons and lap child holding positions, I have enough emotional baggage to put me overweight – metaphorically and literally.
I’ve never been away from BABY for more than a night, much less a week. And I’m gutted. I’m taking this pretty hard. I’m taking it much hard than she is. And I’ve coped by drinking lots of wine and telling everyone who crosses path about the little bugger. I’ve showed lots of strangers baby pictures - whether they’re interested or not.
If I could make the plane fly faster I would. But most of all, I can’t wait to get home for my fill of hugs and kisses and cuddles. By the suitcase-load.
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