With my husband away on a business trip, I'm managing our family of four children single-handedly for two and a half weeks. "Mama, who will you drink wine with?" my youngest asks with concern. "Shall we share a glass while Daddy's gone?" He shakes his head vigorously. "Nooo, crazy mama, I can't drink alcohol." I burst out laughing. "Exactly right—kids aren't allowed alcohol yet."
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As a mother of four, I'll handle all upbringing and household duties solo for two and a half weeks. It's not drastically different from our usual routine—my husband often works long hours even when home—but the weight of full responsibility feels heavier. I notice it in my restless sleep, quicker burnout, and occasional anxiety.
Do I dread his departures? I tell myself no, until the moment arrives.
We wave from the window—me, my 18-year-old daughter, and Little Man. "Mommy, open the window," he demands, eager to tell Daddy one more thing.
"I love you!!!!" he shouts, blowing a kiss.
My husband waves, honks, and drives off. A chill and sadness wash over me. Tears burn behind my eyes. I must hold them back, swallowing the lump in my throat. But my daughter rubs my back gently.
Shoot.
I fight the tears, but they trickle down. I wipe them hastily with my sleeve, hoping Little Man doesn't notice. "Mom, are you missing Daddy that much?" "No, it'll pass quickly," I reassure him.
Then he looks at me and starts crying. I kneel beside him, tears flowing freely. "What's wrong?" "I'm going to miss Daddy so much." He's sobbing now. I glance at my lost-looking 18-year-old and grab my phone.
"Yes, hello," my husband answers cheerfully. Silence, then sobs. But Little Man pulls himself together. "Daddy, I'm just going to miss you so much." His voice softens.
"Dear Boevenkop, I'll be back soon. Remember what Daddy said: put my shoe by the fire and sing loudly so Santa thinks I sang." Little Man laughs.
"Daddy, left or right shoe?" "Both," he teases. "Nooooo, Sinterklaas won't allow that!"
That evening, two teenage friends join my 14-year-old for a sleepover. We set clear rules. They don't stick. Within 30 minutes, arguments erupt, and I regret agreeing—especially since the others couldn't have friends over. My teen ignores rules or negotiates endlessly.
I stay calm as long as possible, but frustration boils over. Venting clarifies my boundaries. The girls head out, heavily made up and perfumed. I worry about their safe return while Little Man hands out homemade gingerbread cookies.
In bed, I sigh with relief at the front door slam—they're home. Horror movies start, but they're safe inside. I turn off my light.
Needing the bathroom that night, I check my phone. Daughter 18 texted at 4 a.m.: I'm home.
Was she out?
-x-
Ievy
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