I missed my family. The first night, I just stood in the kitchen while my sister fixed her boys' supper plates.
"You don't know what to do with yourself, do you?" she said.
The trip was lovely, despite gloomy weather. My sister is so obviously in love with her new husband, their happiness is infectious. And visiting with my parents, grandparents and other family without having to worry about rushing off to see in-laws or making my children behave was relaxing. I read a couple books and ate all the foods I can't get outside my hometown and generally was a bum. But I missed my boys, all of them.
The feeling was mutual. On Sunday afternoon, while I was en route back home, the husband asked the boys -- both feeling better and coming home from a baseball game -- who had missed Momma. "MEEEEEEEEEEEE!" they yelled. The Beastie spent most of his waking hours for the next day on my lap and was angry Monday when he heard me shutting the dryer door, thinking I was getting in the car to leave again. The Boy showed his feelings in a slightly different way: He spent 36 hours being a cranky-pants, finally admitting Monday to being angry that I had left. Being so missed made me all warm and fuzzy, despite the sassiness.
I haven't taken a trip by myself since The Boy was eight months old. Getting away, allowing myself to miss my family, made me appreciate them more. It made me even more glad -- and erased any lingering guilt I had -- about booking a trip to The Blathering.
When was the last time you got out of town alone?