My baby's on the other side of the planet.
I remember feeling this same dull ache in late July, when he left a few days before I could. And among my half-written posts waiting to be molded into full compositions, I just came across something I drafted that day while I was working at my summer internship:
He left. I've been left...left with memories of smiles and high-pitched chatter, swathes of camouflage fabric, a jug of clownishly purple detergent, and Big Ben nagging me from outside my remarkably large window. Go away, Ben; you're no substitute. Although my baby's certainly old enough to understand what a plane is and how it works, he's not ready. (Or perhaps I'm not ready.)
I'm so proud of his cognitive development, in only a way that an overly protective big sister can be. What a mama hen I've turned out to be. He knows that today he had to wake up early and that he couldn't fuss - not that he fusses that often anymore. But even so, he knows that today was no day to fuss because his mother was running around frantically trying to tie up all kinds of loose ends before they could leave. (I should note that this is actually how my mother exists, even in the absence of an impending flight.) And he knew that after he buckled his seat belt, things would soon start to rumble all around and his ears would twinge after a few thousand feet. But all the same, I hope he wasn't scared. I hope someone thought to unwrap a piece of candy for him so it might hurt a little less.
This can't be good, that I can't deal with being apart from him for three days. I could always go find some candy so it might hurt a little less, I suppose...but I suspect that sugarcoated remedies lose their potency after the age of...say, six.
It's a month later, and this same ache has returned, although it is dampened somewhat by the constant stress of entertaining a guest in this house all alone. I've never done this before, so it seems that I learn a new lesson every few hours. For example, I usually don't do the dishes this often, as there are usually others around here who share the responsibility. But I've been toting a bottle of moisturizer around all day because after the first round of dishes this morning, I extracted my hands from the sink and cringed. I'm not used to my palms feeling so...sandpaper-y.
I did thank the kitchen staff at West (the first-years' dining hall at Union) every time I dropped off my plates this past year...but the past two days have given those rushed "Thank you"s a whole new meaning. I'm a little ashamed of myself, honestly. I just hope they all have enough moisturizer.
My baby's on the other side of the planet. There's no changing that. But at multiple points since I got home, I've caught myself fantasizing about practicing his times tables with him, or reading together, or taking him outside to ride his new bike in the cul-de-sac, or just talking to him. That would be enough. In some incomprehensible way, he takes care of me. His smile is a balm for these tired hands, his hug a rejuvenator for this tired soul. I can't wait until he comes bursting through the door, even if he notices his long-lost toys before he notices his sister. To see him would be enough.
