This week Baby Tai-Tai and I were separated for the longest time and distance in his scant two-and-a-bit-years on this earth, when Mummy went away on a work trip (the details of which shall – for now – remain a secret. Suffice to say that I shall no longer be expecting any degree of sympathy if I’ve had a tough day at the office. Yep, it was pretty sweet. Stay tuned to The Day Job for more on that).
It’s at this point that many of my working mum friends will be rolling their eyes and making “alright for some”-type noises at their screen, as three nights away from a toddler is hardly the end of the world. And, being perfectly honest, a weekend of unbroken sleep, lie-ins and the opportunity to read an actual book (by which I mean a novel, rather than The Gruffalo) was just what the doctor ordered.
So much so, that when I sat down for Skype chat with Mr. and Baby Tai-Tai on my last day away from home, my dear husband remarked that I looked well. His exact words, “You look… different. Like, well-rested or something? Have you been sleeping lots? (Muttered sotto voce). Alright for some… “ suggested that perhaps I did look a little less haggard than usual and that the break had done me some good.
But – despite gleefully signing up for the trip in the first place and having pretty much a textbook fabulous time whilst there – I couldn’t help but look at everything through the eyes of a mum, despite the fact that I didn’t really need to. Try as I might, I found myself unable to fully take advantage of the numerous benefits of a child-free trip in the way that I once would have done.
And so I found myself idly pondering exactly where I’d have left Baby T-T in order to have a massage; just how many open steps there were down to the pool; which flavour of ice cream I would have chosen to share; and whether I’d have had sufficient room in my carry-on luggage for toy cars or whether I’d have needed the bigger case? (Hint: if you’re travelling with your child, you always need the bigger case).
My off switch is clearly broken.
Of course, the very best bit about going away is coming home again, as demonstrated this morning at 6.30am, when Baby T-T burst into our room shouting, “Daddy? Daddy!… (stops dead in his tracks)… MUMMY! MUMMY CAME HOME! MummyMummyMummyyyyy CAME HOME!” before climbing right over the top of me into my bed and proceeding to tell me all about his dream.
(It was about a digger that was flying in the air, and a helicopter-car that was parked by a purple bus at the shops. Just in case you were wondering what two-year-olds dream of.)
It’s good to be home.