Nobody Tells You What Happens After the Airport Hug

 Nobody Tells You What Happens After the Airport Hug

If you've ever been in a long-distance relationship, you've probably played the reunion over in your

head a thousand times.

You picture running into each other's arms. The perfect airport hug. The kiss that makes six months

disappear in an instant.

Reality?

It's more like running into each other, stepping on each other's feet, and accidentally smashing your

forehead into his nose.

It's awkward.

It's uncomfortable.

It's full of tension.

You want everything to be perfect, but the truth is...

It isn't.

For six months we've lived completely different lives.

He's used to coming home, grabbing a store-bought meal, wolfing it back in three seconds while

sitting on the couch, and watching television at a volume I swear the neighbours can hear.

I spent six months dreaming about a glass of wine, soft music, and long conversations.

Neither one of us is wrong.

We're just...

Different.

He's used to living alone.

Leaving the toilet seat up.

Doing things when he wants, how he wants.

I'm used to living with people.

Looking after people.

Doing things because they need to be done.

Then there's another piece of this puzzle that neither of us really expected.

Parenting.

Or should I say...

Grandparenting.

See, Rob and I never raised children together.

By the time we found each other, our children were already grown. We never had to figure out

toddlers, homework, bedtime routines, or teenage attitudes as a team.

Now we're standing here with a seven-year-old grandson.

And it's pretty clear we have very different parenting styles.

I'm probably far too patient.

Probably far too tolerant.

I like to explain.

I want children to understand why.

Rob...

Well...

Rob is a little more like a grenade.

You can see it rolling toward you.

You know something's coming.

You're just not quite sure when it's going to explode.

My own kids always joked that when Mom got really quiet...

That's when you knew you'd really done it.

Silence was much scarier than yelling.

Rob likes to tell.

I like to explain.

Neither one of us is wrong.

They're simply different approaches.

Of course...

If I'm being completely honest...

I still think my way is right.

"Then again, every parent and grandparent reading this is probably nodding their head and thinking exactly the same thing about their own way."

And if Rob is reading this, I'm pretty sure he's thinking exactly the same thing.

Then there's Declan.

He absolutely loves his Papa, and Papa loves him right back.

But loving a child and understanding how that child thinks are two very different things.

I've spent years learning how Declan processes information, what motivates him, what overwhelms him, and when he simply needs something explained differently.

Rob hasn't had that opportunity yet.

Sometimes I find myself wanting to jump in because I know another approach would probably work better. Not because Rob doesn't care—he cares deeply—but because experience matters.

Then I find myself standing in the middle between the two people I love most.

That part is exhausting.

Declan is seven.

He's funny.

He's smart.

He's kind.

He's also seven.

Some days his behaviour is amazing.

Other days...

Well...

He's seven.

Children don't stop being children just because Grandma crossed an international border.

So no...

This week hasn't looked like either of us imagined.

By the end of the day, I'm emotionally tired.

And if I'm being honest...

Sometimes I hide in the bathroom for five minutes just to cry.

Not because anything terrible has happened.

Not because we're fighting.

Just because things aren't how I imagined they would be.

Sometimes crying is simply a release.

Other times I get up and start cleaning.

Not because I'm upset with anyone.

Cleaning is simply how I regulate myself.

It gives my brain something familiar to focus on when everything around me feels just a little chaotic.

Rob sees me cleaning and immediately thinks something must be wrong.

He wants to fix it.

The truth is...

Nothing needs fixing.

I just need a minute.

One thing I've worked really hard on over the last few years is not taking everything personally.

To feel it.

Acknowledge it.

Then keep moving.

Some days that's easier than others.

So when another comment is made about the doors being left unlocked...

Or protecting the house...

Or being a little more careful...

I have to work really hard not to turn around and punch him in the face.

(Kidding...mostly.)

Instead, I remind myself that what I'm hearing isn't criticism.

It's protection.

He's spent months living in Louisiana where locking doors isn't optional.

Protecting the people he loves is one of his greatest qualities.

Sometimes my nervous system hears criticism...

When what he's actually offering is care.

That's on me to sort through.

And then...

There's the bathroom fan.

Oh, the bathroom fan.

I leave it on because the sound helps regulate my ADHD brain.

It's white noise for my nervous system.

It quiets everything else down.

It drives Rob absolutely crazy.

But dear God...

Don't shut that thing off.

If that fan goes off before I'm ready, there's a very real chance my head will explode, the tears will start, and the sobbing won't be far behind.

ADHD and nervous systems don't suddenly adjust because we're together again.

If anything...

They're heightened.

My ADHD didn't stay in Canada.

His protective instincts didn't disappear because I crossed the border.

We're not learning how to love each other.

We're learning how to understand each other's nervous systems.

Then there are the computers.

Seriously...

Who knew crossing an international border could make technology lose its ever-loving mind?

Passwords stop working.

Websites suddenly don't load.

Browser history disappears.

Caches need clearing.

Everything seems to forget who you are.

And yes...

It frustrates me.

It would frustrate me whether I was in Louisiana or back in Canada.

When I head home, I'll probably be just as irritated all over again.

But because Rob hates seeing me frustrated, he starts trying to fix everything.

Then he gets frustrated because I'm frustrated.

Meanwhile I'm standing there thinking...

"Dude...

Relax."

I'm not frustrated with you.

I'm frustrated with the computer.

Sometimes a computer is just being a complete dumbass.

Not every sigh.

Not every eye roll.

Not every frustrated moment is about our relationship.

Sometimes technology simply deserves the attitude.

I think that's one of the biggest things we're still learning.

Not every emotion needs to be solved.

Sometimes someone just needs five minutes to cry.

Or clean.

Or sit quietly with the bathroom fan humming in the background.

But it hasn't all been difficult.

We finally did it.

We visited the alligators.

Not only did we feed them, we held them, petted them, and yes...

Loved on them.

Then came Snake Island.

If you've been reading Pillow Talk for a while, you'll know there was a time I couldn't even look at a picture of a snake on my computer without having a panic attack.

Yet here I was...

Walking through Snake Island.

Don't get too excited.

I stayed on the opposite side of the exhibits whenever possible.

But I walked through.

Progress is progress.

We also took Declan to D-BAT for his very first experience in an automated batting cage.

Let's just say...

Papa was pleasantly surprised.

Declan held his own.

Watching the smiles on both of their faces made every awkward moment worth it.

Even Papa stepped in and hit a few balls himself.

Those are the moments you hold onto.

And if I'm being fair...

Most of the time, Rob is just a big kid himself.

He roughhouses with Declan.

He wrestles with him.

He teases him.

He meets him right at his intellectual level, and honestly, it's one of my favourite things to watch.

For those moments they're not a grandfather and grandson...

They're just two boys having fun.

The challenge is that kids don't understand where the imaginary line is.

One minute you're part of my pack.

You're wrestling.

You're laughing.

You're chasing each other around the house.

The next minute you've jumped on Papa's back, punched him on the top of the head, and when he

bent over...

Well...

Let's just say a karate kick landed squarely in his special package.

Welcome to the world of seven-year-old boys.

Declan wasn't trying to hurt him.

He was doing exactly what children do.

When adults invite children into roughhousing, children don't always recognize the moment the game is over.

They don't see the invisible line that suddenly appeared.

That's where I tend to step in.

Not because Rob is wrong.

Not because Declan is wrong.

Because children have to be taught where those boundaries are.

I think that's one of those things adults sometimes forget.

Kids don't naturally understand pack rules.

They have to learn them.

And honestly...

We're all still figuring out the rules of this little pack we've created under one roof.

The harder part?

Canada and Louisiana are two very different worlds.

Back home we leave doors unlocked.

Someone forgets to turn off a light?

No big deal.

Here...

Doors are locked immediately.

Lights are turned off.

Everything has its place because life here requires a different level of awareness.

I feel like I'm constantly caught in the middle.

Trying to remind Declan without making him feel like he's done something wrong.

Trying not to frustrate Rob.

Trying not to become the person constantly saying, "He's just not used to it."

It's exhausting trying to make sure everyone feels understood.

Maybe that's the reality nobody talks about.

Reuniting after six months apart isn't difficult because you stopped loving each other.

It's difficult because you've both become incredibly good at living without each other.

You've built routines.

Habits.

Ways of communicating.

Ways of parenting.

Ways of regulating yourselves.

Then one day those two completely different worlds collide under the same roof.

It isn't romantic.

It isn't graceful.

It's messy.

It's frustrating.

It's humbling.

It's learning each other all over again.

Maybe that's what love really is.

Not the airport hug.

Not the butterflies.

Not the perfect reunion.

Maybe love is choosing each other after the awkwardness.

After the misunderstandings.

After stepping on each other's feet.

After accidentally smashing your forehead into his nose.

And maybe...

Just maybe...

The first week is always the hardest because we're trying so hard to make everything perfect.

Perhaps next time we'll remember that perfect was never the goal.

Being together was.

As a matter of fact...

I started writing this blog sitting at the kitchen table.

About halfway through, I quietly got up, walked into the bathroom, closed the lid on the toilet, sat down, turned on the bathroom fan, and finished writing it there.

Not because anything was wrong.

Not because we were fighting.

"Maybe that's the point of this whole week. We aren't learning how to love each other—we've already done that. We're learning how to live with each other again. And apparently...for me...that sometimes starts on a closed toilet seat with a bathroom fan humming in the background.”

Until next week...

Fina

Veni, vidi, vici