I am pretty much packed. I have packed the child, and the dog and have sitters for both of them. I have cleaned out the fridge and emptied the garbages. Passports in hand. I have been looking forward to going to Mexico for months now and tomorrow is finally the day.
And I am so nervous.
This is the first trip my husband and I are taking without baby girl. We will be gone a week. No one to take care of. No work to do. No chores. I will lay on a beach or in a pool and read books, and sleep in, and drink, and eat hot meals, and get laid, and spoon my husband, and somewhere in there turn 30.
And then what? What on earth am I going to do with myself this week of freedom? What are my husband and I even going to talk about?
I am not concerned for Sofia–I know she will have an amazing time at her Grandma’s. I am concerned for me! I might die of missing-dom. It is a terrible thought to me to think of going to bed without smelling her hair, or waking up without hearing her say whether or not the sun is out. I will be going a whole week without her putting her hands on my face and calling me her favorite, or hearing her laugh.
I know what you’re thinking: put a stop to the whambulance about dealing with the hardship of a week in Mexico. I agree. I am a whack job.
But it’s an undeniable truth that for all my posts about surviving my daughter and our intertwining challenges, I live a more full life with her in it. The thought of pretending she isn’t a part of it for even a week makes me feel broken, and I haven’t even gotten on the plane yet.