That’s how long I’ll be gone on a business trip for the She Streams Conference tomorrow. This is slightly shorter than my foray down south in May for Mom 2.0, also the last time I went away on a work trip.
Forty-eight hours is nothing for me but apparently a lifetime for my eldest son who cried a bowl of tears at bedtime tonight. It was if I said I was going hyperspeed on the Millenium Falcon to a galaxy far, far away.
Close, I’ll be in New York.
I sort of thought as he got older it’d be easier to work more. Turns out that’s about as big of a myth as the Star Wars story itself.
Yes, the logistics of working are a bit easier. He’s away in school all day, so I have that time to fill. He doesn’t care what I do when he’s busy building and learning and running around the field at school.
But he does care when I’m not the one who’s going to be with him when he wakes in the morning. Or when he gets home for school. Because to me, those times are the ones that make me as crazy as when they freeze Han Solo in the vat of carbonite. However this is sacred time to him, I know. It is security to have mommy there to wake him up, put him to bed and keep the “normal” routine going.
And while it’s not bad to shake the routine up every so often, it doesn’t help with the dreaded “mommy guilt” that I constantly try to stray from in my quest to have a part-time, flexible, [insert work-life balance adjective here] job. He’ll be fine, I’ll be fine, we’ll all be FINE. But it just might take 48 hours to ensure it.