They're gone again.
I've pulled over on the shoulder to have the requisite post airport cry and feel grateful for the wonderful visit and grateful that this goodbye time the kids aren't here, so I can just worry about my own psyche for a minute or two (okay, maybe three). My centre of gravity is always slippery, shifty post-leaving. I lose momentum, forget where I was heading. It takes a few days to push past it and remember. (And it will take a few days to get Boy-o back together, for this is a loss he always feels keenly. Like mama, like son. And for Girlio to stop being confused about where her people suddenly disappeared to.)
(It is a backwards glancing and forward thinking kind of pain. I am keenly aware in these moments that I am pouring my love into my babies so that they will grow up as whole as possible in this life. And so that they will be strong enough to leave me. A simultaneously beautiful and horrifying thing. A thin line between selflessness and masochism).
(How is it that we managed to end up living in the province with the set of parents who are retired and can afford to travel more, instead of the ones who take a hit every time they come visit from the costs of travelling and lost work hours?)
Goodbyes are a bitch.
Time for a kitchen dance party with my babies. A moment to regroup. Recollect. Pull together.
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