I vividly recall my first day back at work after the birth of my daughter. It was six weeks and four days after she entered the world. We decided my husband would drop her off at the sitter’s place because I wasn’t sure I could handle it. After a heartfelt kiss and gentle caress of her cheek in the car for what felt like an eternity, I finally closed the door. My husband glanced back at me through the open window. “You alright?” he asked.
I nodded, and with that, he drove away. I stood in the street, reminiscent of that scene with Mae Whitman in Hope Floats when the father drives off. A scream wanted to erupt from my throat, my arms longed to cradle my baby once more, and my feet itched to dash after them. But instead, I remained motionless, shaking with sobs. I promised myself I’d never be apart from her again if I could avoid it.
Nearly 12 years have passed since that moment, but its intensity lingers in my memory. My husband and I have managed to sneak in a few overnight getaways since then—each one oddly peaceful. We dine at restaurants that don’t feature paper tablecloths and crayons, and sometimes, we hit the gym together. We talk without interruptions, hold hands, and relish the thought of sleeping in a little longer. These moments remind us of our early days as a couple, reinforcing that we are still the same two people who fell in love years ago. When we return to our daughters, we feel revitalized.
A few years back, I was set to attend a writing conference, but the girls were distraught. They clung to my legs, their blue eyes filled with tears, despite the discussions we’d had in the days leading up to my departure. I bit my lip, wavering as I looked down at their hopeful faces. After a prolonged delay, my husband finally nudged me out the door. The 45-minute drive to the train station was filled with heavy thoughts, and I spent the four-hour ride to New York City fighting back tears. The sensation of being away from my kids felt foreign; I almost wished for a badge that read, “I’m a mother of three!” part of me worried that if anyone saw me enjoying myself without them, they’d label me a bad mom.
I felt their absence like phantom limbs. As I walked through the hotel, I expected to see them in my reflection. Although I made it through the blog conference, I waited a full year before leaving again.
Recently, after a week of family time in Washington over spring break, I flew to California for another conference while my husband took the girls back to New York. They were aware of my award nomination and excited to be part of the experience. They even helped me choose an outfit for the ceremony, and my eldest lent me a silver purse to carry, saying, “So you’ll think of me and have me with you.”
This trip felt different. I was thrilled to reconnect with friends and enjoy a night of celebration. I took time to pamper myself with the hotel’s lotion and woke up early for a run, free from the worry of waking anyone. I missed my kids, but there was a refreshing sense of being…alone, for once.
After 12 years of parenting, I’ve learned the importance of carving out time for myself. I strive to be a positive role model for my daughters, and if I don’t prioritize my own well-being, how can I show them a life that transcends the routines of work, school, and home? Do I still feel that nagging pull to be at home? Absolutely. But am I grateful for those two nights in California to gain inspiration and wisdom? Without a doubt.
Will I ever travel without that deep, phantom ache and the guilt of being selfish? Probably not. I believe the yearning we feel for our children—whether it’s physical or emotional—remains with us. The longing that comes from having waited for someone so long means that once you have them, part of you never wants to let go.
But we must learn to let go, because that’s the essence of parenting. We embark on these small journeys, allowing ourselves to come and go repeatedly—for hugs, for “I love yous,” and for sharing stories about the adventures we had. These little excursions are practice for the time when it won’t be me leaving, but my children.