I’ve just returned home after a week-long business trip in Prague (yes, again) with the intent of posting this magnificent essay about the city. Or the great people I met. Or the awesome differences between shooting commercials in LA and shooting commercials where pickled kielbasa passes for craft service.
As it turns out, all I wanted to do is be with my kids.
The entire trip, I kept explaining that fierce longing to my younger colleagues: It’s like being in love every day of your life.
I couldn’t enter a shop without thinking what my girls would want from there. I couldn’t enter a park without wondering what tree they would love best. I couldn’t look at a menu without thinking oh God, what would they eat if they were here? Would they even try the chicken schnitzel? Could I pass it off as a Czech chicken nugget?
When I walked through door last night and Thalia and Sage threw themselves into my arms, covering me in kisses and refusing to let go, I realized, the in love part is what’s hard to describe to people without children who say they don’t want kids because…ew, diapers.
Being in love makes us do crazy thing. Like not caring about the diapers. Or wanting to come home early from the most beautiful European city. Or putting off the Real Housewives finale (don’t spoil it!) and instead pushing through the jet lag as best you can to read the next chapter of Ozma of Oz out loud.
Only then do you feel whole again.