Reunion.

After my confession of not missing the kids too much last week, I have to admit that I woke up last Sunday morning with that familiar, maternal aching.

As our return flight took off, I prayed harder than ever for safe travel so I could see and hold my babies again. And as we drove closer to the pick up spot, I found my right foot getting heavier and heavier on the gas pedal.

My brother and sister-in-law took the kids for the week -- SEVEN DAYS -- a gift that's generosity and wonderfulness can't be adequately described with words. The kids got to experience life in a small Midwestern town with their cousins who they only see a few times a year.

I didn't worry about them in the least, knowing they were: A) having a blast and B) being lovingly cared for - both in copious amounts. That's why I didn't miss them as much as I thought I would. I wasn't worrying about them -- or their caretakers' ability to handle them.

When we pulled into the parking lot half way between my and my brother's homes, I felt giddy with excitement. Seeing everyone's beaming, smiling faces was indescribable and I was nearly knocked down when Crowbar ran and jumped up into my arms.

For a little boy who's still learning the concept of time, the week had been particularly long. On the ride home, he expressed his surprise at the length of his visit, saying, "That was a lot of days, Mom. A LOT!"

Realizing I'd spoken about vacation week which probably sounded shorter than it was, I pulled him close and whispered in his ear, "I will never go away that long again." Crowbar smiled and hugged me tightly, burying his head in my chest.

And as wonderful as the past week had been, and as little as I missed the kids while I was gone, I meant it.

I'm done with being away from the kids for extended periods - be it in a hospital or on vacation.

I'm done. I'm home.

Finally.