That trip I just took was the longest I’ve been away from my little buddy, and it was tough. When I finally got back into town I was itching to snatch him up from his crib and take him to bed with us so I could get a snuggle fix, but I was so tired I managed to hold off. When I woke up the next morning and ran for him, he wanted nothing to do with me.
My in-laws were still here, so they reassured me that it was a standard kid thing. They’d seen every grandkid get mad at mom for going away and act out when they returned. They promised that in a couple of days he’d be back to normal.
But while my head knew that everything they said made sense, it couldn’t stop my guts from feeling like they’d been kicked to ribbons.
Every time I picked him up he’d dive away from my body to try to get to grandma. He’d give me the back of his head for kisses, unless he stopped me before I got too close by putting a hand up to my face.
And he still won’t say “I love you.”
I suppose it’s only fair that if I want his every expression to fill me with more joy than I can contain, than I must accept the flip side and deal with the heartbreak of his rejection. But just because I understand it doesn’t mean it feels better.