I’m still in Nashville and I’m starting to get cranky. But at least the pile of cotton balls I use to apply my toner every morning and every night has diminished to just a quartet of white puffs on the bathroom vanity.
It’s Sunday morning. At home, we would be lazing about in our pajamas until 8 or so, eating a big breakfast of pancakes or French toast or egg sandwiches. Maybe waffles, if I were feeling ambitious. We’d start getting ready for church by 8:30, trading off showers and the toddler rodeo.
Instead I’m in Tennessee Ballroom A-B at the Gaylord Opryland and the air smells like natural gas because of the fuel keeping chafing dishes of dried-out scrambled eggs and greasy chicken apple sausage warm. And, as at all conferences, it’s freezing in here.
I haven’t ordered room service once. I’m averaging 5 hours of sleep a night. The work days are brutal. I’m so glad I brought the new philosophy eye cream that Erin got for me, because even if it doesn’t work, it makes me feel like maybe the bags are a little smaller and the circles a little lighter.
At least it’s almost over. Even cranky, I’m trying to look on the bright side. For some reason, this year is a lot tougher than last year. R is able to talk on the phone for short spurts, to tell me that she’s watching Dora or eating Cheetos or played with Maggie. Or that it’s 1 a.m. and she sleeping on my pillow in bed with Daddy.
And I can’t decide if that’s worse or not – if it makes me miss her more. I just know that it’s starting to ache. And all the offhand “love you mommy”s prompted by her daddy can’t make up for the hugs and the kisses I’m missing. And craving. Sometimes this just sucks.