Last weekend Uta went on a road trip with his grandpa. They drove together, six hours north, to Portland, to see Uncle J sing. They made an extended weekend of it, staying two nights in a hotel, so that they could spend a little time with J when he wasn't singing. This is the longest Uta and I have ever been apart. Some may see it as down right crazy, to go so long without a little break, but I've always thought myself lucky. I have been able to be with Uta every day, day and night, until he was nearly eight years old. This summer he did his first sleepover at a friend's house that broke our marathon of togetherness. This sort of togetherness is not for everyone, but for us it was the right thing. Did he miss me? Only a tiny bit he said, holding his thumb and forefinger a mere millimeter apart from one another. Did I miss him? Not at all! The quiet he left in his wake was heavenly. I love him, of course, but he rarely stops talking. And his presence sometimes feels like it fills every crack and crevice in my brain so densely I dont have adequate space for a thought of my own. Thoughts of my own, what a luxury! Uta enjoyed himself immensely too. He got to eat fruit loops for breakfast (the confession of which left him rolling with laughter on the kitchen floor), watch TV in bed, and go for a swim any time it struck his fancy. Moms are good, but being away from them is pretty good too.
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