I’m sitting in a beach house living room, curled up on a striped chair. Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow and her family stayed here last week and I can’t help but wonder if my butt is where her butt once was. That’s equally fascinating and creepy to me. I’m tucked away on a little island in North Carolina with my girlfriends; we all drove down for just a quick 48 hours to get away from the daily grind. For me, a chance to breathe a little before my husband’s golf season starts, to say goodbye to summer, to simply not hear “Why, Mommy?” for one day. It’s a weekend of no expectations, where books are read on the back porch and french toast is enjoyed around a table (where Gwyneth sat).
I slept in this morning until a little before nine and it felt absolutely delicious. Sinful, even. The sky is covered in low grey clouds, but it doesn’t matter – the windows are open and this weekend isn’t the girls’ weekends of my college years. There’s no tanning spray and bikinis and beer pong and gosh, I like that. I was never much of a beer pong girl anyway.
My husband texted me a few pictures this morning of Harry in a bounce house, standing by a firetruck, eating a hot dog. Our local school is holding a “Safety Day” and ever the amazing dad, my husband took Harry to see the big trucks and bounce houses. And sitting here hours away, coffee and book in hand, I started aching for those boys.
There was a time when I couldn’t imagine anything better than a weekend away and now I can’t imagine anything better than Saturday mornings at home with my boys. Of my napping boy curled into my side while I read a book and sweeping out the garage while he learns to pedal his bike. Now that I’m away, I want to know every moment of their day – what are they doing? eating? thinking? Did Harry say anything funny today? Did he nap? How long was his bath and did he ask for bubbles and which cartoon did he pick to watch this morning?
I’m appreciative of this weekend and thankful for friendships and hot mugs of coffee on the back deck.
But oh, how I miss my son.
Does anyone else get this way? Find yourself in a situation where you just ache for your kid and normalcy, even when you’re sleeping in a bed that Gwyneth slept in?
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