So on Valentine's Day I leave 5/6 of my children and go for a two-night jaunt to Austin, Texas. I have built this trip up so much in my mind that I am quite queasy with both anticipation and dread. Dread that someone will get sick or something will go wrong while I'm gone. Logically this is really stupid because a) probably all will be fine; b) this is not a life or death situation (like, for example, leaving your kids for a few days in Revolutionary France), c) PVT is eminently capable of caring for his children (and is sometimes even better than I am when they're sick - he's so much calmer). But I would feel terrible if something happened and he had to deal with it solo, and if something is going to be wrong with my children, I want to be there. Even if I am a useless wreck.
But assuming I can get over this paranoia (probably the minute I set foot at the airport), I am giddy with anticipation: flying by myself! (OK, with a baby, but she doesn't talk back or need to use the airplane potty, nor will she be capable of terrorizing everyone at the gate or running laps up and down the plane's aisle!) I could never become one of those jaded travelers; I love airports, the freneticism, the whacky people, the businessmen slurping Guinness at the cheezy airport bars, the sense of possibility where so many crossing paths converge. And I will buy US Weekly! And Grande Soy Extra Hot No Whip White Chocolate Mochas! AIIIEEEEEE! And then I will stay in a HOTEL where there are clean ironed linens, minibars and maids! And oh, the eating out, the margaritas, the shopping...
Sorry, mommies. I know I am making you nauseous with envy.
And oh yeah: seeing my dear, dear sisters, whom I rarely get to see and who of course make me feel so young again because I think sisters, when convened, automatically revert to an unspecified time around that tween age. Bliss.
I am about to burst.
Or vomit, one of the two.