I spent two days of the Thanksgiving weekend camping.
(Camping! Near a beach! On November 29 and December 1!)
There were wild ponies, there was woodsmoke, there was coffee made on a camp stove, there was even a long long stretch of sandy beach against which blue-tinged water crashed. It was pretty idyllic.
There were, however, no children. And missing them was like having a frantic and toothy rodent living inside my gut for those two days.
On rearrival at the House, having missed the children so badly, I was assaulted by Clara's need to have me knit for her on tiny needles with delicate yarn. (My fingers were still sausagey from the cold and twig gathering, so this was a significant challenge). Winton ignored me. And I felt teary-eyed.
Inside was too hot, and re-entry was too emotionally scorching as well.
Transitions to and from the House where my children live are terribly hard.
Is it best to handle these transitions the way people with dogs handle introductions between their canines (outside somewhere, where everyone is on neutral territory)? Having played outside somewhere maybe then all residents can move indoors with greater ease?
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