leaving the kids: it seems to get harder

I went on a business trip this morning for two (maybe three, we’ll see) days. 
Maggie wore her “Pocket Full of Poseys” skirt from Rosemary’s Cuppa on Etsy. Right now it’s the one article of her clothing we are in violent agreement on: it rocks. It’s adorable. It has a POCKET.

 (this is not an ad or a paid link; I just love this skirt)

Whenever I go away, I fill Maggie’s pockets with kisses that she can pull out whenever one seems called for. “I need five today,” she commanded. I sat down at one of her tiny preschool tables and kissed my fingers five times, placing them carefully inside.

“Be a good girl for YaYa and Poppy,” I said.

“I will! Bye Mama!” she answered, skipping away with her friend Ellie, both of them in pigtails. Not looking back. Not worried about the two days at all.
I was glad. But. 
For some reason this really got to me.

For some reason this is still getting to me as I write this, thirty thousand feet in the air.

She’s getting big on me. I won’t see her for two days. I’ll miss two days of the little bit of little-girl I have left.

Clearly I’m getting soft in my old age. Does leaving your kids ever get easier? 

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