Dear Scarlett,
I am in New York, and you are in San Francisco. There is something so wrong about that. But it's true. I'm here for work and it will be a quick trip, so I keep telling myself it's not going to get that bad and I won't die from missing you. And so far (although it's been mere hours), I have not died. Saying goodbye to you at the airport was hard. Mostly because you kept swatting me in the face when I tried to kiss you, and I might have done the same thing if someone was trying to give me 387 kisses in 30 seconds.
In the airport, I experienced a complete seesaw of emotions. One minute I was happy--I'm in the airport without a baby! I don't have to worry about what anyone else needs! I'm going to be able to read my book on the plane! which quickly devolved into--What am I doing here? My arms have never felt so empty. I can't believe I have to pump on the plane.
Now here I am at the hotel, and I have just talked to Dad who reported that you had a delightful day, which included a trip to Best Buy, where you flirted with everyone who moved, and stared at the big TVs. But you have also been tugging on your ears all day, because you are still suffering from the dreaded ear infections.
Yes, it turns out you were resistant to your medication. We went back to the doctor and got you a second prescription, but you made short work of that by throwing it up all over Dad and the floor. You are now on the third medication and although it seems to be working, I am not a doctor and don't actually know if it's doing anything to clean up the raging mess going on in your ears. So I ask myself again, what am I doing here in a New York hotel when you have to go to the doctor tomorrow morning?
But the answer is, Dad can handle it. Aunt Lizzie will be there. You really do seem to be doing much better. And maybe, just maybe, I'll have my first full night of sleep here in this tiny, hot hotel room. But my arms still feel pretty empty.
I miss you,
Mom
