We have recovered our wee man from his Spring Break sojourn with his grandparents. He was properly spoiled and snuggled and sugared, although he did tell us at bedtime tonight that he loved us and was glad to be home.
He was gone for only five days, but it's funny how much we all missed him. Even Little Miss went about, hopefully asking everyone from her teachers at school to our friends at the coffee shop, "Knock? Knock?" (Which is her one-and-one-third years old word for her brother.)
They say that one of the gifts of children is that it gives you new perspective on your own early years. When I was his age I'd been to Germany and back without my mother, for months at a time. I was with my dad, of course, but still.
On the one hand, it makes me feel like a terrible wuss. After all, both of my parents lived half a world away from me for varying, alternating parts of the year, and they slogged through it.
On the other hand--wuss-y or not--the thought of the Kid being gone for much longer than he was opens a big, sucking hole in my chest that I desperately don't want to think about for much longer than it's taken to write this sentence.
I'm glad he had a little adventure, but I'm ten times glader that he's home.