I always note how travel changes me. There’s changes that occur, simply by being out of my home element, challenges to my “survival” (reading a map, navigating a new city, attempting to understand a new language, culture, metro system, or custom).
But there’s also changes I notice in the world that I merge back into when the wandering is finished. I have immense gratitude for the ones who hold our place so we can go. Beyond that is the bizarre feeling of re-integrating with the digital dependence. There’s a dissonance I feel settling back into the well worn rut of the life we put on pause for a few days to experience another part of the world. The mixture of joy and guilt that washes over me when I see my little man for the first time in a week, tears are hard to fight back.
I notice immediately how much he’s changed in such a short time. I love the feeling of home that I can only know when I’m holding him in my arms. I have to accept that too will change too soon, when the day will come when he no longer needs me.
I realize that I kind of hate travelling now. A part of me changed too when he was born. And all the beautiful places in the world can’t compete with the feeling the lifts me up when he smiles at me. And, yes, the Eiffel Tower will still be there, long after he’s a grown man and no longer needs me the same way he does now. And, sure, it’s only a week, and he did really well hanging with my in-laws, and they were just so stellar to watch him for us. I’m just happier when I’m with him.