I’m leaving you two. And it doesn’t feel good and it doesn’t feel right.

But it’s necessary.

I’m leaving you two. And you’ll be here continuing on with school and daycare, learning new songs and new words, and I won’t be home to hear you practice. I won’t be here to see the cheesy grins of pride, or the flush of your rosy cheeks as you teach me proper french pronunciation.

I won’t be home waiting, though I’m sure by day four you’ll be wondering.

For seven days I won’t see your fluttering eyes, barely visible by the light of the moon, as you cross the bridge between wakefulness and sleep, and I won’t be there to kiss you when you wake.

And it’s the first time in ten years we’ve swung it- a vacation, as adults. Though lets be real- our 19 year old selves are a distant memory. We were free- without responsibility, without work obligations to return to, and without a moral compass- we certainly didn’t have snotty appendages to worry about. We were mere children ourselves.

And now that we’re older there’s so much more guilt for the piece of us that we’ll leave behind- the two of you. But that doesn’t mean the trip is any less important or needed.

I’m leaving you, and this time I have to follow my head and not my heart. I know I need this, that we need this, beneath the guilt and the worry and the tears as I close the door behind me hearing your cries.

You won’t get it.

And I’ll cry too. For having to live without you, because the two of you are my puzzle’s centrepiece. But I’ll find some of my long sought after corner pieces- the shoved under the rug pieces, too.

I’m your mother, yes, but I do more than nag, brag and change shitty diapers. I’m your mother, but I am capable of a good night’s sleep and two too many whiskey sours.

I’m your mother, but I’m a woman and a wife, and those girls are reconnecting this week on a beach with an ill fitting used bathing suit from Frenchy’s and those same ten year old sandals from that fateful trip ten years ago. I’m still a sloppy drunk and I’m still in love- it’s just that my leg hair is longer, my Spanish is worse, and I’ve grown a lot less fucks.

We had the choice to bring you girls, but we said no- for us. But still, this shit ain’t easy now that it’s here and I’m a lactating mess about the whole thing.

We’re driving away from you now, in the cold, dark night. The moon is guiding us far away from you, and all I can imagine is the way it must be lighting up your plump cheeks as you lay down to rest without me.

But we’ll all find our peace, I have to trust, under the same light of the moon- me on one end of the world, and you two on the other.

And this week will be horrid and beautiful all at the same time.