I’m sitting in JFK, waiting for my ungodly long layover to be over with. I’ve got internet and Starbucks (after an obscenely long wait and rude service) and I should be in a writer’s paradise, right? I mean, after all, I haven’t written anything on my WIP in two weeks and I’ve really only started thinking about my writing career the last few days to take my mind off leaving my kids once again.
So I should be thrilled, right? Peace and quiet. Chilling and writing?
Yeah, not so much.
My heart hurts. My youngest was up this morning at three when I was getting dressed (there was a lobster that was going to bite her) and she asked me to ‘nuggle with her. Each time I thought she was asleep and I’d try to extricate myself from her embrace, she’d tighten her arms around my neck. It just about killed me. My oldest didn’t wake up, but it was a close thing (you can hear a bug walking on Mom’s floor).
Finally made it out of the house for my brother to take us to Bangor Airport (the troop greeters were there, which is awesome). Did fine until a little guy on our flight was screaming. Most passengers were upset because the kid was crying. It worked me over pretty good because all I could imagine was my daughters getting themselves all worked up looking for Mommy and Daddy today.
God this sucks. I keep telling myself that it’s worth it to give up a year of my life to provide for my kids and in 18 years when my daughters have both of their college educations paid for that it will be worth it.
Right now, that’s a pretty cold comfort.