Homecoming

Posted Thursday, June 25, 2009, at 9:18 PM

Our 7-year-old son has been away from home for nearly two weeks.

He was with my husband's parents first, then went to my mom's place. Intermittently, he has seen both his great-grandmothers and his sister.

He has called twice, maybe three times. He's been having quite a ball ... he's been to the zoo, to every ice cream shop in Fort Wayne, to the mall, and at the moment, he's with my mother and stepfather camping.

It's been something of a mixed blessing having Will be away. The house is very, very quiet. My husband works night shifts once or twice a week, and there have been three occasions over the past two weeks when I was home alone at night.

My husband and I have had time for us, and that's been nice. We can sit and talk, not worrying about getting Will to daycare or making sure he's bathed and ready for bed. We've had to worry about no one but ourselves since he's been gone, and while I miss Will like crazy I have to admit that part of it has been kind of nice.

I go to work when I want to. I don't have to fight over the remote or the computer. No one is messing up my house. Kids aren't running in and out letting out the cooled air and/or the dog.

On the other hand, I don't have my little man to give me a hug that resembles a wrestling takedown move when I come home from work in the afternoon. I don't get to look at those sweet brown eyes getting heavy with sleep when he's ready to drift off. I don't get to unleash the tickle monster on him and listen to his adorable giggles.

The dog is lost, wondering where the playmate who walks him around the yard and woods and who throws his tennis ball for him went.

Most of all, I miss the time between dinner and bath. Will cuddles on the couch next to me. He snuggles into the crook of my arm. Then he asks, "How much do you love me?"

I smile. "How much do you think I love you?" I ask.

"Do you love me to the moon and back?"

"I do," I tell him.

"That's how much I love you, too."

This exchange has happened pretty much every night since Will could talk.

My dad and I had a similar bit.

We'd be driving, and he'd come to a railroad crossing. He would stop.

"Train's been through here, Jamie," he'd say.

"How can you tell, Dad?" I'd ask dutifully.

"Left its tracks."

Then we'd laugh, even though the joke was old and stale and not funny anymore.

It was, however, ours.