When My Babies Came Back to Me

Nothing soothes a co-parenting mother’s soul like the return of her babies.

This past Friday, they finally came back to me. It was only for the weekend, but it was one of the best feelings in the world.

I had been away from them for two whole weeks—the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing them.

Sure, we had FaceTimed. Sure, we texted every day. But I hadn’t been able to hug them. Kiss them. Wrap my arms around them.

We met at the rest station in Smyrna. We’re now that family—one that will become intimately familiar with the ins and outs of a rest stop gas station.

As soon as I saw them pull up, I was out of my car in seconds. I barely remember baby girl jumping into my arms—but I know she was there, nuzzling into me over and over again.

ABC’s teeth had grown in.

J was taller.

E looked more mature.

CCC’s hair was longer.

They had changed.

And yet—they were still mine.

And we were finally together again.

They filled me in on their two weeks away during the drive home.

They raved about my “new blue car”—though J, true to form, said he would “save his remarks for later.” (It’s a minivan.)

J complained about X and his inability to listen.

But mostly, we just loved on each other.

We made the most of every second.

Everyone was excited—we’re now officially residents of Maryland. No more apartment in Delaware. We live with D now. We’re a family.

We spent the weekend at our community pool.

The kids made friends.

I adjusted goggles about a hundred million times.

Took baby girl to the bathroom about three hundred million times.

Threw dive toys another four hundred million times.

D took J to an indoor golf center.

We prepped for our next move next month.

We packed.

We snuggled.

We watched TV.

We rode bikes.

We baked cookies.

ABC snuck into our bed every night.

And we just soaked each other in.

Then Sunday came.

We packed up our things and made the drive back to Delaware.

Baby girl cried but reminded me, sweetly, “I can ask someone to call you.”

It wasn’t enough time.

It never is.

We met again at that same rest stop.

This time, they didn’t run to their father.

They walked slowly.

Hesitantly.

The exuberance of Friday replaced with Sunday’s goodbye.

And just like that, the weekend was over.

I cried the entire drive back to Maryland.

That night, D and I went to one of our favorite restaurants.

We had a great time—like we always do. But it still felt like something was missing. Someone was missing. Or five someones.

When we got back, I packed some more and reminded myself: we’re already a quarter of the way through our summer schedule.

I survive better in chunks. I know we can get through the next two weeks—because we’ve done it before.

So we’ll keep busy.

Packing.

Living.

And holding tight to whatever adventure comes next.