Right now, I’m feeling a mix of guilt and glee.
In two hours, I will meet my mom for what we call the “kid exchange.” Once every two months or so, we meet at a fast-food restaurant, and my mom takes my kids home to Winston-Salem with her for a night (or, in this case, two), which gives my husband and I some “us” time.
With two kids, two full-time jobs and two killer daily commutes, it’s pretty much the only “us” time we get, and it is blissful.
Still, it’s rare that I don’t tear up when I see my mom’s CRV pull away, my babies safely strapped in their car seats in the back. My kids are my life, and it’s hard for me to be without them during the workday, let alone a whole day or a weekend.
But after the initial separation, I know everyone will have a great time.
My parents, who love to spoil their only two grandchildren, will enjoy every cup of spilled milk, every temper tantrum, every demand for another book before bedtime in a way that I, as a parent, never could.
My children have been talking about visiting Moo and Pop-Pop’s house all week, and they will be greeted with wet doggy kisses from my parents’ dogs, slices of pepperoni pizza, soaks in the hot tub and … well, pretty much whatever they want.
And my husband and I … tonight, no one will stick their hands in our water glasses at the dinner table, demanding a piece of ice. We’ll be able to have an adult conversation as we eat, and we can sleep like our kids do – arms and legs flailed all over the place – since we’ll be the only ones in our bed for a change.
So I’m prepared to go through a range of emotions this weekend. Guilt, then bliss, then, on Sunday morning, the anticipation that comes from knowing I’ll get to see my kids in a few hours.
And then, when they wrap their little arms around my neck and plant big kisses on my cheeks, I will feel absolute and total love.
I think I like that last part the best.