Here's my truth.
I don't feel any guilt.
Now don't get me wrong. I adore my children. Love them with every ounce of my being. And my husband is amazing. And I will miss them immensely while I am gone.
And appreciate them even more when I get home. Well at least until one of my kids whines or decks another one.
And I completely understand those who are feeling guilty or sad or torn. But guilt is not what I feel.
Sure guilt might have motivated some of my actions. Like when I frantically washed every item of clothing over the weekend to make sure no one ran out of underwear. And yes, I snuck in to give all my sleeping boys one last kiss before I caught my cab at 4:30 in the morning.
I get that me leaving caused Brian to have to adjust his clinic schedule and pick up, well 100 percent of everything for 4 days. My parents are even stepping in to watch Eli while Brian and the big boys head to Cub Scouts camp on Saturday.
So I feel immensely grateful.
But not at all guilty.
Because to me? I guess in some ways I feel that I earn this. Really, we all do. I work hard. We both do.
But Brian's work keeps him away from the house far more than mine does. Which means I do most of the meals. All of the laundry. Coordinate the schedules, manage the homework, break up the fights, respond to the repetitive knock knock jokes, clean the ears, break up the fights again, clean up the mess, change the diapers, remember the recycling, load the dishes, unload the dishes, and on and on and on.
And that is just from 6-10 p.m.
No medals or badges of honor needed. This is what I signed up for.
Because most days I wouldn't have it any other way. Before we all had kids. Got married. Or didn't. Or got divorced. We were just people. And sometimes I relish the opportunity to just be a person again. Not a doer. Planner. Manager.
Because it makes all of the rest of it that much sweeter when I come back.
So feel guilty when you leave. That is fine.
Or don't. And don't then feel guilty that you don't feel guilty. Cause that just makes no sense.
