Four Days, Three Nights

We knew for weeks that he would be coming. His name was prominently displayed on our calendar from the day after Thanksgiving until Cyber Monday. We did everything we could to prepare ourselves. We stocked up on his favorite foods, his favorite playthings, and all the supplies we could possibly anticipate needing. We were ready.

What we weren't ready for was how hard it was going to be to let him go.

We already knew what a special grandson we have. We knew he was impossibly sweet, good-natured, easy-going, and flexible. What we didn't know was how our sixty-something year-old bodies were going to hold up taking care of that bundle of energy for four days. Easy baby or not, we were still going to have to get up and down off the floor (a lot), carry him up and down the stairs (a lot), wrangle him to change diapers and clothes (a lot), and get him in and out of that car seat (as little as possible). So how did it go? Well, let's just say that while our backs and knees might disagree, my husband and I were ready to take him back an hour after our daughter picked him up.

It was the silence that hit us first. Where was that contagious little laugh? Or those silly little sounds that mean something only to him? Or that pitter-patter of hands and knees on the kitchen floor? Of course, there were a couple of sounds we didn't miss - like the wail of his crying when he toppled over on that nasty wooden floor or that chug-a, chug-a big red Wiggles car that he incessantly wheels across the room. But by the time dinner rolled around (without anyone sitting in that high chair), we were even missing that. A little.

Now that he's back in the arms of his mommy and daddy I'm just sitting here wondering - who's going to help my husband make coffee? Or help me make banana bread? Or toss that tennis ball in our general direction?

And even more importantly, who's going to cuddle up with me under that blanket and make waking up at 7:00 a.m. so much fun?

Harder Than I Thought

Vacations are a wonderful thing . . . until they're over. You spend months planning them, waiting for them, anticipating them - and then they're over before you know it. In other parts of the world, it's not uncommon for even entry-level workers to get four to six weeks of downtime but in our neck of the woods, most of us have to settle for a measly two weeks a year to recharge our batteries. Just when we start to relax, it's time to head back to reality and, as everyone knows, that is highly overrated.

My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?

It isn't any better.

At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.

And then it was over.

Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.

I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:

How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?