I saw you today for the first time in eight days. It feels so strange to go even a day without you here, and I don’t think you or anyone else in my life really understands what that feels like (except other parents, and I still don’t know many of them). At work today I counted down the seconds, which seemed to creep by, until it was time to get you. You and your mom went on a vacation (visited family in the DC area) and we spoke on the phone a few times (lucky me, since you’re conversations are “hi, love you, bye”). But when you opened the door to greet me it looked like you aged a year, maybe two.
Luckily you were just as excited to see me and we went home and played played played. We even played out in the rain (on your porch, the playground, the run home). We threw a baseball back and forth, you, happy to be reunited with your glove. And after we played with moon sand we decided to get out the volcano we made out of sculpy on my birthday. We used the vinegar sparingly because there wasn’t much left, but you didn’t seem to mind when the bottle finally emptied.
And like that, a few wonderful, happy hours went by. Your mom picked you up and I scurried up to work to finish my day, sad to see you go, but glad to have you back. And we’re both excited about you coming back tomorrow night. See you soon, and thank you for a memorable afternoon.