Leavin' on a Jet Plane.

“You promise you’ll be back? Because I will miss you if you don’t come back and I don’t want to be sad again.”

She’s made me pinkie promise this before. In between packing sweaters and socks, panties and pants, tees and hair ties, we’ve wrestled with homework and talked about the best part of the day just as we always do. We’ve talked about behaving while I’m away and what treasures I’ll bring back.

As we packed and prepared, the house continued the warm soothing cadence of the normalcy we have found. But as the days dripped away and “soon” became “now,” we all wrestled with the anxiety that comes with opening this new door. There have been speed bumps along the smooth path of good behavior and teary moments that are less about why Draculaura can’t fit into Tinkerbell’s clothes and more about the unsettling of what has settled.

This was a vacation that was meant to happen before he disrupted the flight path and left us standing at the gate with extra baggage. A vacation we were to take as a family to a white, sandy beach and that is now my personal sabbatical halfway across the world where, in an ironic twist of fate, the verbal currency is the language of lovers.

We’ve never been apart for this long. Eight nights. Nine days. Tomorrow morning I will kiss their cheeks and remind them of all the ways that I love them and then I will leave on a trip I have counted down the days to. A trip meant to recharge and rejuvenate, ancient cobblestones and gothic cathedrals replacing the soothing lull of the waves. They will be fine and I will be fine, and the days will drip away until I am home again with treasures in hand and stories to hear. But perched on the toilet seat listening to her fears and “did you knows” as lavender bubbles float with her giggles in the steam I am already in the air.

Coming home.