“Are you home now?” she asked me, her kindness over the last fourteen hours adding to my tearfulness, which I hid successfully until after telling her that yes, we were home. She welcomed me back, then set about preparing the cabin for landing. She had let me sleep on the floor with Little Brother (#noupgradesthistime), had offered the boys toys, had looked after us, and her kindness–on top of the series finale of Friends that I had just engaged in emotional masochism by watching–and on top of the exhaustion from travel–and on top of the recently (as in, five minutes ago) acquired monthly hormonal influx–it nearly undid me. When she walked away, my eyes overflowed. I thought of all the places we’d been in the last two weeks, all the people we’d seen, all the love I’d felt.

We are constantly saying goodbye.

I brace myself for these flights, these visits, these journeys across the world and back, saying it’s about the difficulty of traveling with small children, or the jet lag we’ll experience, or the bouncing around from place to place. But really, mostly, it’s about the pain: about the mandated letting-go, the onslaught of emotions that threaten my fragile composure, that beckon my anxiety. It’s about not wanting to feel so much.

I’ve always failed at not feeling so much. And I’m so grateful for that.

This morning, The Kid sobbed in bed with me. The Husband was downstairs with Little Brother, who had woken up at 3:45 am, talking nonstop in the pre-dawn hours since. TK, though, he slept two hours later than his brother then woke up tearful and afraid. He didn’t want to go back to school. It was hard, he said, and boring, and could I go see the principal about getting this term shortened to four days? I said I would, I told him I would share his sad, I prayed. Proving that everything looks worse in the dark, he bounced out of bed an hour later, and ran into his classroom without a look back. First: he feels everything. Then: he lives. I like this blueprint.

There is so much we did while we were gone that I don’t even know where to begin. So I’ll begin here: I’d never been to the Central Park Zoo. I’d walked by it, glanced at the sea lions from behind the gate, but never actually been inside. This trip to New York was full of firsts, and so many of them were because of the kids: first trip to the Zoo, first time renting the remote-control sailboats, first time flying down the slide of a playground with a skyscraper view, first time ending my Central Park run early with The Sis because we were too tired and so we just walked and talked. First time launching a book, and can I just tell you, doing so in front of TH and the boys, watching my sons watch me onstage and know they were a part of it? It was everything. But in case everything wasn’t enough, TH had recruited surprises: The Mom and Sis, my college bestie, Yankee Mom and Dad, and, later, my Second Husband* along with all the rest for a round-table dinner full of wine and laughter and love. We walked, we took the subway, we brunched. The expectations were low, and they were defied. Surpassed.

I did sleep on the floor of the plane on the way back, but you can’t have it all.

My phone immediately picks up the wireless at our Atlanta house, at the church where the Mockingbird conference is held, at my sister’s place. How are all these places not home? And yet, all these places are home.

This morning, I walked into seas of people I know. At LB’s school, his favourite girl walked up and announced, “Will is my best friend,” and off they went to play legos. In TK’s classroom, a boy greeted him, “Hello, different James,” and I bristled until realising it was because the other James in his class was already there. He’s just another James. And not, of course.

We are constantly saying hello.

We can’t stay in one place, and yet we do. We can’t call more than one place home, and yet we do. We can’t deal with all the emotions, and yet we do. We live within the impossible constantly made possible.

And when the leaving gets to be too much, when all I want to do is find one place and stay there, I look around and realise: we do stay. Because the four of us–we stay together.

*if he turns straight, and things with TH don’t work out