In just a couple short weeks, my husband and I will depart on our first adults-only vacation since becoming parents: a “babymoon” before Jack’s arrival. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to get away, to have someone else make my bed, to throw towels on the floor and have them refreshed the next day, to take my time getting ready, to hold hands and walk leisurely down city streets like the good old days. Likewise, it would be a lie to say I’m not eyeing those dates on the calendar without a fair dose of anxiety and, admittedly, a slight sense of dread.
My husband and I travelled often before Nicky. We spent long weekends in various U.S. cities, skied here and there and everywhere, made longer trips to Europe. I really believe it’s important to get away from it all and see your partner all dressed up and refreshed and enjoying something new, be it trying a piece of delectable live scallop sushi or taking in a piece of art. You learn things about one another. You come back feeling refreshed, holding hands more, laughing about how ridiculous your husband sounded when he tried to pronounce “menu” in German, or the look on your face when that sweet Italian woman presented you with an entire glass of olive oil to drink at the wine tasting. There are still autumn mornings when I push the stroller out onto the street and the air feels just like it did in Rome, and I get a little charge of romance, remembering those mornings with Chris, the whole city laid out in front of us.
But now, frankly, travel seems like a burden. When Nicky is included it means an endless little of things to bring, a car packed with snacks and books and movies and crayons, hours of turning backwards to face him, returning choo choos that dropped to the ground, searching in vain for everything you packed so carefully so you’d know just where it was. When he’s not involved, it equates to endless worrying. What if they don’t remember he means frozen on-the-go yogurt when he asks for ice cream? They won’t remember the steps for night-night. He’ll never get to sleep if he doesn’t have Gordon and Gordon’s tender in his hands. They’ll forget the tenders. They don’t even know what a tender is. What about when he asks for his baby? Will they recognize that as a request for a Glo-worm doll? He gets up at 5:30 a.m. That’s no fun. What if something happens? Will they remember he’s allergic to penicillin?
And then there’s the actual being away. I can’t help it. I miss my child when we’re apart. I don’t miss him at 5:30 a.m., but I miss him when I’m seeing something neat that he’d enjoy or watching other parents with their kids. I’ll miss him to bits when I’m boarding that train from Montreal to Quebec. He would enjoy that. I’ll miss him like crazy when I see other toddlers sleeping soundly on their parents’ chests in airplanes and terminals.
I was in Chicago on business for a couple days this summer and my flight got delayed for a night. I was miserable. I had the city at my fingertips and wanted none of it. I wasn’t interested in shopping. I dragged myself into a hip sushi restaurant and ordered a couple pregnancy-safe rolls. I choked down my seaweed salad. On the way back to the hotel, I happened upon a free summer concert in the park. The band was incredible, the weather amazing, the crowd one of the most eclectic I’ve seen. Like a sleepwalker, I paid $5 for a snow cone and people watched. I tried to keep my eyes on the group of 10 or so Bengali women shaking it like nobody was looking, doing some seemingly choreographed routine in a tight circle in the middle of the throbbing throng. Patronizingly, I imagined this was the closest they’d felt to home in a long time. I tried to imagine a little narrative for each of them. My interest, though, kept drifting back to a dad dancing with his son on his shoulders. Of course the dad was tall, dark, and handsome like my husband, and of course the little boy was exactly Nick’s age and wearing that “I’m having the time of my life” smile I know so well. The tears welled up and spilled over. A homeless man took this as a sign of vulnerability and asked me if I could spare some change. I stood up and trudged back to the Hilton, holding back real tears.
But this trip holds the promise of being different. For the first time, I’ll be away from my son, but with my husband. If my sorrow was missing my family, then this should only be half as bad. I’m sure there will be plenty of time, whole stretches of hours, when I won’t miss Nicky at all. I’ll sleep till 8 a.m. and not watch one single moment of Thomas the Tank Engine. We’ll visit art museums and churches and just absorb the silence. And we’ll come back and be better parents for it, and he’ll be spoiled rotten by his grandparents. And maybe he will have learned how to fall asleep with only Gordon and not his tender. And we’ll remember how to spend a leisurely morning sipping lattes at a café and doing exactly as we choose for the rest of the day.
