Cat and Tate are away spending this week with my parents. While normally this is a time for celebration (i.e. cleaning closets with a glass of wine in my hand and reading entire books without pictures or rhyming), this year the experience is more bittersweet. Previously, I had thought of these trips as my break from the kids. Now, I think it has morphed into their break from me.

Three years ago when they spent the week at grandma and pop-pop’s they would call at least four times a day, missing me, needing to hear my voice. By last year, they were down to once a day but Tate begged to come home early despite the tsunami of spoiling she received.

This summer when the girls went down for a week in July, Cat hit the ground running but Tate still missed dear old Mom and had some early bouts of homesickness which she eventually overcame.

What a difference a month has made. Not only are neither of the kids homesick, they now don’t call. I have to call them every night for updates and even then they are inclined to do a cursory drive-by conversation. Tonight’s talk with Cat is a prime example:

Cat after just a few minutes: “Well Mom, I better go, there is something I want to watch on TV.”

Me: “Cat, are you telling me that I am not as entertaining as what you see on TV?”

Cat: “Honestly Mom, it depends on the show. Love you. Bye.”