Loving family routine interrupted, then revived

For the first time in their relatively brief lives, I left my children for an extended period of time to travel for a conference. The last time I had left them overnight was when my twins were 3 months old. They certainly don’t remember it and, in my postpartum haze, I didn’t remember anything except being able to sleep through the night for the first time since they had been born.

This time was different. The twins were acutely aware of my missing presence when they awoke. It was brought to their attention again when I didn’t get them from school. A seemingly endless cycle of reminders of the absence.

That was definitely the thing that struck me the most. We FaceTimed every morning at breakfast and again either at dinner or bedtime. I made sure my schedule allowed me to check in with them so they could tell me about their day.

Without fail, at each meal, they attempted to share their food with me – or, rather, the phone. They showed me, as they usually do, when their plates were empty or they wanted more. In a sense, it was almost like the virtual me was “good enough.”

Then, they turned thoughtful. Looking at the empty chair or patting the place at the table: “Mama, sit here.”

That’s what got me every time. At the table, or in the rocking chair in the room, the physical space where I would be present in their routine. They would find those spaces and point them out: something’s not right. You’re here but not actually here.

The youngest, too, had notions that all was not right. I’m usually the one who gets him ready for bed while my husband tackles the twins. He is our happiest baby – smiles and laughter – but frequently he was grumpy, cranky. Something was off.

And, for me, something was off too. Perhaps in a non-COVID world, by this age, I’d have been away more frequently for conferences. But I hadn’t been. And it was hard: not only the anxiety over COVID hotspots, but the changed routine. I hadn’t realized how central our routine was, not only to the children, but to myself. The certainty that, come 4 p.m., I’d be hearing the squeals, laughter, crying, tantruming of three young children. The certainty of imaginative play and escaping to the world of “Little Blue Truck,” “Llama Llama” and Eric Carle’s caterpillar. The certainty of bedtime snuggles, wet kisses and hugs from bath time and the soft, gentle thuds of little bodies rocking gently before climbing into bed.

After many delays, engine failure and only three hours of sleep, I was more than ready to see their faces the morning that I returned. The shape of their mouths forming the “O” of surprise, the running of still-sleepy legs and pattering of feet, the biggest grin from the youngest, and the mommy-pile of hugs, squeezes and laughter. It was the best Sunday we’ve had in a long time.

hbozantwitcher@clarionherald.org.