So, we leave for vacation soon. There’s still so much to do, and honestly my motivation has been waning hard. I’m often caught in moments of near total paralysis when I realize how little time is left. (Note to self: stop looking at the travel app which counts down the days for you!) But, whether I’m ready or not, in a few days time, I’ll be on a plane and everything will fall into place. Or it won’t. And either way, I won’t have any control over it.
I like to travel, don’t get me wrong. But travel has taken a different form for me since my son was born. This is a trip where he can’t come, so my husband’s family will be watching him for us. I worry, but he’s resilient and will be fine. I hope. I’m going to miss him, I know. And the pangs of guilt for leaving him will be hard to get over, in spite of being in the City of Light.
I’m stressed, but I feel dumb asking people to feel bad for me. Because I’m going on such an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience, people seem to let on that I have no reason to complain. I’d gladly trade the time for a week home with my son and husband, though. I could care less about a city I’d never choose as a destination, mostly because I can’t speak a lick of french and Paris is hella expensive. Instead, I sit quietly, muttering over and over to myself that “I can do this.”