Rest. Day one.

It is so hard for me to leave the children.

Before we left the child who aches for me the most needed one more hug. "Dont want you go mommy." He buried hisface in my neck. His arms around me, we fell on to the couch and I hugged him back, patting him and breathing him in. I felt his weight on me, his love of me pressing down into my heart.  But daddy was waiting for me in the car.  We had to get up.  Another boys lip quivered as he realized he forgot to show me his latest monkey  bar trick and could he please please do it for me before we go? But daddy waits in the car, so I told him to practice hard and hecould show me it all when we get back home.
I close my eyes and I still feel little one's arms around my neck.
Adele sings us through the mountains, and they make me feel wonderfully small.
We drove all night and I wonder did he play that music on purpose, the kind that reminds me of college and falling in love with him?  Because I am remembering in floods.  I slept in and out of memories and dreams.
We walk on the beach and the sand feels like confectioners sugar between my toes. I want to tell the kids about it, and then I think I should let them play in confectioners sugar when we get home.
We hold hands as we wallk. He wants to find a crab, and he does and I take a picture. I want to tell the kids about that too.
How strange it is, I remark, that we look like two normal people in this place. Just two people holding hands on the beach.

We don't loook like weirdos with six kids. It's like our fun little secret.  I am enjoying a break from the odd looks, but I still feel like a mama duck missing my little ducks.
He collected shells here with his grandma when he was little and tells me about the time they left them in the hot car and it smelled so bad they all almost got sick.  If we do it with the kids, we will bring some bleach we agree, and I say adulthood is lame.
He issues a command for feet and shoe cleaning, and I submit, but i get sand in his car anyway. I try not to think it is funny. He shakes his head, patient with his child-wife.
We say goodnight to little ones by phone, and I miss their arms.
But his arms are nice, too.