Deserted
My job entails that I sometimes travel. Over the past year, I’ve been to Phoenix, San Francisco, Tampa, New Orleans, and several other places. For the most part, I fly to my destination, get into a waiting SUV, go to a hotel, work, sleep (for not very long), work, get into an SUV, and back to the airpot.
People tell me all the exciting things they like about a certain city, and I’m sure that they’re fun, but I never actually have any time to see them.
Yesterday morning, I flew to Dallas, worked until nearly midnight, woke up at 5:30, started working again, and am now sitting in a meeting room ignoring some speaker who I don’t really like. In another 6 hours, I’ll be back on a plane to Chicago.
This is part of my job, and I’m okay with it. It’s why they pay me the big bucks. The problem is, this is the first time I’ve been away since Henry is born. And it’s killing me.
I feel bad that Kristen has to do this all by herself, that she had to put him to sleep last night and this night without help, and had to change all of the diapers. And I feel even worse that on Tuesday morning, I have to leave again for three days (this time to Seattle).
We knew this would happen, and it will happen again and again. But it doesn’t make it any better.
Right now, having not seen Henry and Kristen for more than 24 hours, I really hate Dallas. (No offense intended to any Dallas residents.)
