My job requires me to travel. Usually about once a month on average. Sometimes a little more than that now and again, but also sometimes a little less. I don't necessarily mind that this is an aspect of my job because I absolutely LOVE what I do. Even on the days when I think I'm about to go batshit crazy, I still absolutely love what I do. And the frequency is really not that bad. Not in comparison to my last job, at least. In my last job, I traveled about 75-90% of the month. Sometimes I would not see my apartment for weeks on end. And at the time, that was acceptable as my lifestyle. At the time.
Back then my husband was my boyfriend, our boy pup's parents were still pups themselves, and the concept that we would have a child in the near enough future never crossed my mind. The 'frequent flyer' lifestyle was a way of life. My life. And I wore it well. A lot has changed from then until now - all for the better, despite what some might think of the image I'm about to create in the next sentence. On any given day, I have toddler-gunk in my hair and on my clothes. The 'mom of a toddler' lifestyle is a way of life. My life. And I wear his gunk well. And proudly, for that matter.
So despite the less frequent work trips (in comparison to my true road warrior days), work trips still mean travel. Travel means not being home. Which in turn then means...
I miss hugging my men at the end of the work day. I miss getting frustrated because I can't pee alone. I miss hanging up my husband's belt because he leaves it on the counter (always). I miss getting kicked in the face in the middle of the night. I miss wondering "When did he even crawl into our bed? Thank goodness I didn't roll over him or accidentally push him off." (Umm, for the record, it has actually never happened. But I feel like we're playing against the odds at this point.) I miss the organized loving chaos of my household.
I especially miss these things right now because today I got on an airplane for work and I won't be home for a few days. And before I left, my husband told me that LJ carries around a picture of me when I'm gone. I'm not even sure what my facial expression said, but I smiled and said something like "Aww, that's so sweet." What really happened at that moment was that a piece of my heart was breaking. And I felt guilty. Guilty for leaving. Guilty for loving my job. Guilty for having a job. Guilty for the sky being blue today. I just felt guilty.
Nonetheless, I still got on the plane and went to work today. And I'll work each day here until I get to go home. I'll do a good job. Scratch that. I'll do a kick ass job. I'll make the trip worth it. I'll make the time away from my men count. But I'll still feel guilty. And my heart won't be whole again until I can hug my men, pee with an audience, hang my husband's belt, and get kicked in the face in the middle of the night.
Nonetheless, I still got on the plane and went to work today. And I'll work each day here until I get to go home. I'll do a good job. Scratch that. I'll do a kick ass job. I'll make the trip worth it. I'll make the time away from my men count. But I'll still feel guilty. And my heart won't be whole again until I can hug my men, pee with an audience, hang my husband's belt, and get kicked in the face in the middle of the night.
This definitely won't be my last post about the inner struggles of the traveling working mom. I tend to have some type of battle with myself - usually about once a month on average. Sometimes a little more than that now and again, but also sometimes a little less.