Another week, another work trip.
Fine, I’m being dramatic. I really don’t travel often at all, but I happen to have been away for quite a few days this month. That, however, doesn’t make for a pithy opening line.
When I am away, The Kidling misses me. Well, she usually misses me. Sometimes she has fun activities to keep her occupied. Then she only misses me a wee bit. And sometimes she has Nana to hang out with. Then she doesn’t miss me at all. You can be damn sure I miss her (and The Dada, but this blog isn’t called Dadaville and he doesn’t ask cute questions and say silly things when I’m away).
This week while I was in DC, I chatted with The Kidling on the phone. She told me about her day and about the exciting evening she had at school. In her pajamas.
Confidential to my readers who are responsible for a small child: are daycare, preschool, and school way the hell more fun than when we were kids? Because The Kidling does new and exciting things all the time. Water parks, apple orchards, picnics, library trips… I do not remember my life being quite so charmed when I was a kidling.
The Kidling and her classmates went home, changed into their pajamas, and returned to school for spooky story hour in the media center.
There’s another one of those fun kid things. “Media Center.” What the hell is a Media Center? When I was a kidling, it was called a library. Also? I am old and crotchety.
She was super excited to tell me about it, and gave me what I am certain is an accurate count of the attendance (800. Or 1000!). What chatted for a while longer before The Kidling said mournfully into the phone, “I wish you could come through there.”
Cue Mama guilt.
This, of course, reminded me of other funny little things The Kidling has said or asked about in the course of my travels. On one recent trip to New York, The Kidling was interested in the details of my accommodations: something about which I had given little thought. Apparently she wanted to ensure the rooms were suitable for The Mama, because she grilled me:
“Do you have a kitchen?” she began.
“No.” I replied. Then, a logical follow-up. “Oh, then you have to go to restaurants?”
“Do you have a potty room?” she asked. I replied with a giggle, “Yes.”
Then, another one (seriously, no one has ever cared so much about my hotel room), “Do you have a stove?”
Eventually, she got to the important question: the one that had been bothering her for entire seconds “Can you roast marshmallows?”
“Nope.” I told her.
Clearly disappointed, she abandoned her questioning and allowed me to ask about her day. I honestly don’t remember much more of our conversation, but I do know one thing:
The next time I book a room, I’m going to make damn sure I can roast a marshmallow in it.