Missing Henry

It’s my sixth hour in the Toronto airport. I’ve been waiting for a flight to New York. Storms have made the flight late and now the backup of planes means that it might be another hour or two before we’re able to take off. Frustrating. There is the annoyance that comes with too many hours in uncomfortable seats, the amount of money spent on bad airport pizza and glossy magazines, and the irritation I feel listening to brash New York businessmen vocalize how much THEY are inconvenienced by waiting hours in an airport. But, more frustrating than all these things put together is my guttural reaction to families walking by with kids. I notice little boys with blonde hair and chunky legs and sandals. Kids laughing loudly, running as fast they can from parents who are trying to coral them before their flights. I miss Henry. I shouldn’t be in an airport in Toronto, I should be picking him up from daycare. I sometimes find myself in the classic working mother scenario (too many hours at work, not enough time at home – or the other way around) and feel guilty about it. But never so much as I do when I travel. Especially when Henry is at this fantastic period in his life. Every day brings a new word, a new realization about the world. On our “conference call” this morning, he told me, “Mommy on airplane. COME BACK!” Come back. Indeed, that’s what I need to do. If only I could get on the damn plane.