I left for a trip this morning: my first one by myself, without my children or husband, in two years. The last time I left my husband completely in charge of my children was when I was pregnant with my youngest. Leaving then was easier. Having two children was easier than the three we currently have.
My middle child, who loves to sleep as long as it begins at night, still slumbered when it was time for me to get to the airport. I couldn't leave without saying goodbye, so I woke her. She probably would have weathered my departure well if she had slept through it. Still, I needed the kisses.
My eldest decided that since T would be taking care of them during the day everything would be fine and would run smoothly. She gave a hug and got a kiss and returned to her morning cartoons.
The wuss in my happened when it was time to bid farewell to my son. At 21 months, he will be the most impacted as I am still his sun and moon. He clung to my knees, begging to be held one last time. When he allowed me to set him on his feet, I shoved my husband out the door so that I wouldn't need to hear his cries.
Keeping the tears from flowing from my own eyes was difficult enough without knowing that he was sad. He'll be okay, mostly. I'll be okay, too.