My ears are ringing. I cannot drink enough water. I’m so tired that I’m losing my voice. The tension headache is hitting its crescendo. And the soles of my feet are angry with me. But … I’m content.
Why, with all that aches me (including breast engorgement*—I’ll explain later), would I be so pleased? Well, the longer story short is that I returned from a sleep-deprivation program—better know as a Vegas bach’ette party weekend—to see that, yes, my husband and QB were more than fine on their own.
The background: My little sister is getting hitched next month. We’re all excited. Not only is she marrying her college sweetie, but they’re also doing it in the Bahamas. My husband and I can almost feel the warm sand tickling our toes. Plus, seeing QB on his first real vacation should be loads o’ fun.
But before she jumps the broom, there is the small matter of the bridal power weekend. My sister, who lives in L.A., opted to have the bachelorette fete in Las Vegas. I made the wise decision several months ago that QB would not go with me. Between the time-change and the long plane-ride, it just didn’t add up. QB would stay home with his father that weekend. After the shot was called, I didn’t think much more about it.
Then, as the date drew near, it started to settle in. This Vegas run would be the fist time I was away from QB. Ever! Wait, maybe taking him wasn’t the worst idea. Maybe I could wake up with him at 3 a.m. to start the day, while the other ladies … are still clubbing it up at TAO. Maybe I could ask my sister and her friends to keep their after-party champagne toasts down to a whisper. Or maybe I could take the baby with me to PURE Nightclub in my very large pocketbook. Yeah, let’s just say I was feeling a lot less chill about it. And as MOH and host of the good times, there was no “can’t go/send nice gift” option on this thing.
And just to take my anxiety to level orange, a week before I was scheduled to fly out, QB got sick. He got a stomach bug and all the “lovely” accoutrements that come with it, reducing the little guy to a drowsy, dehydrated, sad mass of heartbreak. Poor baby didn’t want to even walk, let alone lift his head. QB would only rest on his mother’s shoulder, and cry when anything or anyone tried to separate him from her. He couldn’t eat much, and stuck to a simple diet of things like puree bananas, small pieces of dry toast, Pedialyte, and (making leaving a bigger wrench) breast milk.
*After successfully weaning my son just days earlier, here we were back on the nursing train, making stops every four or five hours.
The pediatrician said all we could do was hydrate and wait. And we did. Six days later, thankfully, Quinn was better. But his mother was still a bag of nerves. The thing is, I knew that I was leaving QB in very capable hands. His father is a very good one, and our son loves hanging with his “Dah-dee.” So I couldn’t put my finger on what was making me so shaky about leaving. I considered some of what other mothers suggested …
You’re afraid that tummy bug isn’t 100% gone. No, that wasn’t my concern.
You’ll come back and realize that you’re not so needed. Nope, that wasn’t it.
These men, poor things, can’t really do what we do. Nah, that’s not it either.
Maybe all the agitation was rooted in something basic and plain like I’m going to miss seeing that marvelous expression on my son’s little face when he first sees me at 6:30 a.m.
Yes, that’s it. My proof of this was the look on QB’s face when he awoke from his afternoon nap yesterday to see his mother at the side of his crib looking back at him.