I miss my boys.
I miss my bed.
I miss the way our youngest son will wake up in the morning and wander into our bedroom, lift the covers, and slide his body right up next to mine. No words exchanged. Sleep still hanging heavy in his eyes. Quiet, present love.
My husband relayed the fact that our youngest crawled in bed with him the other morning. I felt jealous. That’s my thing, my thing with our baby; my our thing, not his our thing. I got over it by eating at a fancy pants restaurant and consuming the food while it was still warm. I didn’t even have to tell anyone to “sit in the middle of their chair,” though I wanted to say it to the teenager seated at the next table. Slumping like that can’t make for easy eating.
I actually called the airlines to see if I could hop a flight home tonight instead of waiting to fly at the crack of dawn tomorrow. No flights. I’m out of luck.
I don’t know what the boys learned this week. I don’t know what homework they had or didn’t have, what spellings words they practiced. I don’t know if fractions magically got easier, but I assume that fractions still suck so bad. I don’t know what jammies they wore or clothes they wore to school or if their socks had holes. (Their socks had holes. I can bet money on this. They both walk on their heels like their mother. So much loud walking.) I don’t know if they ate their entire lunches. They probably didn’t.
I don’t know if anyone was unkind to them, though nothing has been reported via our FaceTime chats. Those other things I don’t know, well, I didn’t think to ask them those things during our FaceTime chats because who asks about holes in your socks when your three thousand miles away? No one. I just wanted to see their cute faces and hear their little voices and tell them, repeatedly, that I love them.
The gray streak right at the center of my forehead hairline got grayer and streakier this week. I think it came from missing my sons. Or exhaustion. Probably both. It almost looks cool and intentional. It is not.
What is intentional is the fact that I will wake up at some dumb, dark hour tomorrow, fly to Dallas Fort Worth, run through the airport because it’s so poorly designed, land at my own airport, and get home just about bedtime tomorrow night. I will intentionally cuddle into their beds, together or separately, and ask them about holes in socks and kind or mean children. I will read them a story or tell them about my week or let them talk to me about whatever they want. Even Pokemon cards.
And later tomorrow night, before I slip under the covers of my very own, very comfortable bed, I will sneak into their rooms and intentionally kiss their heads and whisper, “I love you so much,” like I do every night when I am home. I will sniff in their shampoo and individual scent and I will say an intentional prayer of thanks for their lives, for my motherhood.
I have it good, and I need to be intentional in recognizing that fact.