I don't want to be home.
Not that the "being away" thing was all that wonderful. I'm a very cranky traveller, in general. I want my bed, my shower, my kitchen. Not having my creature comforts close at hand while also caring for a child who refuses to sleep anywhere but home makes me even crankier. The first trip was characterized by near-constant misery for all of us. But this time, I got to see my best friends. Which happens once a year. Maybe.
I spent four and a half days feeling overjoyed to be surrounded by the fun, intelligent, eccentric, neurotic, wonderful women I rarely get to see in person. But I worried about shifting so much of my focus away from Westley, leaving Rob to wrangle, entertain, and soothe our child alone. Socializing with old friends was both refreshing and guilt-inducing, a balancing act between "It's so good to see you! How are you?" and I really hope Rob and Westley are okay.
If I'd known how physically and emotionally exhausting it would be to travel with Westley, I almost certainly would've made arrangements for him to stay home while Rob and I took on the double-whammy wedding weekends. Choosing to bring Westley on what might have been a vacation meant, in a sense, paying to be miserable.
On the other hand, I desperately want my friends to be part of my family's life, too. I gain so much from their presence; I'm certain they have even more to offer Westley. How could I deprive him of the wisdom, love, and practical skills of half a dozen fairy godmothers?
Now I find myself missing them not only for myself, but for my son as well.
And despite my much better judgement, I'm already searching for our next set of plane tickets.