We were home for Thanksgiving this year but we went to Pennsylvania the following day to spend some time with my daughter and her family. We haven't seen the grandkids there in over a month and they won't be coming up to East Hampton until Christmas so it seemed a good time to grab a couple days vacation and see the little ones.
Coming home from a few days with the kids is always so melancholy. I miss them the minute we drive out of their driveway but I'm also anxious to get home to the schedule I have to follow. Tomorrow morning is my day to volunteer at the hospital and its also my anniversary so we'll be doing something to celebrate. The rest of the week is busy with all the usual holiday stuff - choir rehearsals and banquets and even a funeral. Part of me looks forward to getting home and getting things done - but part wants to stay right there with those kids, reading to them at bedtime and cuddling on the couch with them in their pjs.
Someone once said their favorite place in the world was the airport because they were always happy to be there: happy to be going away on a vacation and happy to be coming home from one. I feel that way about my trips to and from Pennsylvania. I love being there and I love coming home. Life is full of such paradoxes, isn't it?