Husband is “away”, “working in a different office” is what we tell the boys. That is true, of course, though different offices are from here to there and in between. Husband flies everywhere, and because he flies often he will often get upgrades. Boohoo, too bad so sad. Sometimes there will be wifi on board and he will have to work, again with the boohoos, sometimes he will merely sleep, now cue my boohoos.

I know that travelling can be grueling, eating airplane food, drinking airplane red wine, watching movies that one doesn’t watch otherwise, driving different cars every other week, staying in hotels, bloody hell. Oh I’m sure that sometimes the sound of the air conditioning units is SO annoying, swimming occasionally before a dinner meeting can be tough to fit in, eating steak (or salad??) with the high flyers is stressful, or riding a mechanical fucking bull might strain one’s neck. Hmmm, yeah, that.

When I was younger, I wanted to be a secretary when I grew up because it looked so cool, so luxurious, like a celebrity lifestyle. Sure, I was 6 at the time, but from where I stand in the unrobotically-cleaned kitchen, it still looks pretty fucking celebrity. Showers every night, corporate clothes (oh, the woes of dry-cleaning), being in demand and on the phone and typing away on computers in every airport lounge, sounds kind of nice.

Of course, every work-away-from-home parent would beg to differ, they are missing out on dinner time, and bath time, and bed time, and loose teeth, and school lunches, and lego and a bunch of other day-to-day miracles, but leave them at home long enough, perhaps they become encrusted with these miracles, along with the rice bubbles and yogurt and strawberry pulp from all the yesterdays, and they start to check their flight statuses again.