At around 1 o’clock this afternoon I was crying. With my 9-month-old son on my lap, hugging him, I cried as I watched Rachel get off the plane to be with Ross. And then I cried some more hugging him even harder as the door to Monica’s apartment closed one last time. It was Friends’ series finale, which I possibly was watching for the, I’m not sure, 14th time? I was crying hard now and my son, for a moment looked at me, worried and possibly sad. He did.
I am getting back to work this monday. A first monday in over 9 months.
He will be fine for those few hours that I will be away. With two extremely eager grandmothers taking turns to be with him, our house help who absolutely adores him and of course the father who is way more than just hands-on. He will be more than fine. I won’t. And I am not.
I worry if he will miss me. What if he doesn't? If he will be angry when I get back home. What if he stops doing those things that he only does with me. I am told 9 months is just about the right time. Old enough to need my constant attention but young enough to not understand my few hours' absence all that much. I am not too sure about that. I feel he gets it.
Monday is 48 hours away.