The sheer necessity of mommy time-out notwithstanding, it takes considerably more intestinal fortitude to walk away from your sweet darlings and board a plane for three days for the first time, than to say “fuck” in a bar during a three hour break from your kids. I practically mewed in sorrow when my kittens waved goodbye. It didn’t help that I could see little baby pudding mouthing and crying ‘mama mama mama.’

Once at the terminal, safely ensconced in the secure portable filled to the rim with young rowdy Canadians on their way to Vegas, I was immediately approached by a small person (around 2) who grabbed my book and said something incomprehensible in waddler language (’bad ladies bad ladies bad ladies, rule!; or something).

Now it’s clear blue and a less than full flight to Atlanta…. And I’m waiting for the turbulence to die down so I can order a celebratory glass of wine and dream of the fun we’ll have this weekend.

I’m tied and free… a mommy bird soaring away from the nest with a great yawp and tweet, all the while looking back hoping all the chickies have enough food and warmth to get them through until Monday.