I’m at LAX alone right now, on my way to NY to do some press for Some Girls. I’ll only be gone for two nights, but it’s the first time I’ll be spending the night apart from T. I nearly sobbed when the car pulled away from the curb, but I have to admit that it felt like taking a giant deep breath just to pass by the Hudson News stand and not have to negotiate the store with a stroller, a carry-on and a baby screaming for yet another airplane toy to inevitably chuck across the aisle. The prospect of actually watching a movie on the plane or, gasp, reading my book, seems like such a luxury.
At the same time, I have the urge to talk to every mother here with a knit brow and an Ergo baby carrier. I’m you, I want to say. I feel your pain. I’ve done it a million times.
I feel guilty that I’m so unencumbered. Or maybe it’s not guilt. Maybe it’s the fact that I feel a little lost in this transitional airport space without my family around me. As if I’m missing a big piece of my public identity. I’m proud of being a mother who has learned to negotiate difficult situations like air travel with a modicum of grace. And yet- my book awaits me. And an hour of time before boarding. An hour. A glorious hour.
This is what motherhood has been like for me. There’s never enough time in a day to spend with my son, never enough time to write, never enough time for Scott and never enough time alone. I’m trying to learn to cherish each moment of the not-enough-time I do have.