I'm leaving in a few minutes to go on a trip with my husband. He has a conference for work. When I kissed Lauren goodbye this morning she asked me what time our plane landed. I said I wasn't sure. Then she asked me what I was going to do when I got there. I had to stop for a minute and try to remember exactly where it is I am going. “I haven't had much time to think about it,” I admitted to her. “I've been too busy trying to get everything set up for you and your sisters.”

She looked confused. “Shouldn't you be more worried about your own trip?” You, my dear, have never been a mother.

“I'll start thinking about it when I get on the plane.” And I will. It's this nifty little trick I learned from my grandmother-in-law, who used to have to travel a lot when she had young children. “Once you get on the plane (or the boat or on the bus) you don't worry about your kids anymore and just have a good time”. The first time I left a baby behind, I didn't know about this. I spent three days on a houseboat frantic with worry and crying into my pillow at night (I'm not kidding). When I came home, she was too busy playing kitchen to give me much of a hug. A bell went off in my head. I had just missed my own trip.

I don't do that anymore. I've done everything I can do here. If my ten page instruction sheet blows away, no one does their homework and they eat nothing but donuts for five days—there is nothing I can do about it. I am about to go into an alternate universe. I just hope they won't be too busy for a hug when I get back.