My daughter has been out-of-town with her surrogate grandmother since Monday. I have pretty much been eating cookies for dinner and often find myself standing in a room wondering what to do next.
I was nervous about her going away. Not because I knew she wouldn’t be well taken care of, but I don’t trust all the other crazies on the roads to behave themselves. Of course, I worry about that when she’s with me, so that is nothing new.
Before this week, I could probably count on eight fingers how many times I have been away from my child. In 2009, I went to NYC with my girlfriends for a weekend vacation where I proceeded to get violently ill as my body rejected New York. My friend was convinced I had SARS and reluctantly sat next to me but assured me I may not be able to fly home. The stress of being stuck there longer than expected (which normally would be a dream) just made the whole situation worse. Alas, I made it home, gave up wheat, and have been by her side ever since.
My daughter left on Monday and just today agreed to talk to me for the first time. My requests to speak with her were met with a “No thanks. But tell her I still love her.” Needless to say, she is having a blast. I have to admit, I feel guilty for enjoying this time to myself. I didn’t take enough of it when she was younger. I couldn’t afford to with school and such. Now, I have a child who normally flips her lid if I leave the room. I created this monster. I take full responsibility.
I think this was a good decision for the two of us. Hopefully in her little brain, she realizes she can be away from me and she’ll be just fine. I now realize that I do need the occasional break. It’s okay to feel guilty about it. It’s how mothers are wired. I would expect people to be worried if I didn’t feel a little guilty shipping her off for a week. Now I’m sitting here trying to figure out how I can do this four times a year.