At the Airport

I am sitting at the airport. Waiting for my plane -- the first leg of the journey west to see the kids and, of course the darling baby.

Master and T drove me here to the airport along roads that were wet but not icy as the second winter storm of the year dropped just over an inch of snow on us over night. I got checked in, ticketed, and we did the hugs and kisses at the security gate. We waved and blew kisses back and forth as I made my way through that line and, I made it through the security check nuttiness without a hitch.

The two of them are headed home, and I am here watching the planes and luggage carts do their odd sort of dance out on the tarmac, nursing a coke, and feeling very flat and ambivalent about the whole business.

I think I should be feeling excited and happy, and I will be glad to see them all, and get my little man in my arms ... and it really is only 4 nights, but there is a part of me that just wants to stay home, curl up safely and quietly and rest in the security of my own life and my own world. I am not thrilled to be battling my way across the country, schlepping my computer and my belongings, worrying about flight delays and weather and security gates and the location of my ID and my boarding pass. I am worried about Master and T. I don't want to be away from them.

What a mess! I want time with this grandchild, and I want to have time to see my kids, but I want them in my world. This business of uprooting and leaving everything familiar and comfortable for the privilege of a few days with the baby is frustrating and irritating and wearisome.

I have the grumpies. Maybe, by the time the wizards of air travel have done their magic and landed me across the continent, I'll feel better. I do hope so.

swan