Mud & Mayhem

I travel for work. Not constantly, but enough. And every single time I do, I come home to kids who look slightly different than when I left — a new word, a new expression, something subtle in their face that tells me time kept moving even when I wasn’t in the room to watch it.

That part I’ve made my peace with. Mostly.

What I haven’t fully figured out is the other kind of guilt. The one that shows up not when I’m missing them but when I’m genuinely, actually having a good time without them.

Last week I was in Chicago for work. We did a team building event. We went to a game at Wrigley Field.

And it was incredible. And I felt terrible about it.

Not because I shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy Wrigley. I know I should. I know I’m a whole person with a life that exists outside of my children and that having experiences is good and healthy and all the things. I know this. I have said this to other people.

It still felt weird.

Because here’s the thing — it wasn’t just missing my kids. It was a specific kind of FOMO on their behalf. Like, they would have loved this. My husband would have loved this. And instead I’m the one standing here watching a game at one of the most iconic ballparks in the country and the people I most want to share it with are in Ramsey, Minnesota, asleep by 7:30.

There’s a version of travel guilt that’s about missing them. And then there’s this version — the one where you’re doing something genuinely cool and you feel almost selfish for experiencing it without them. Two completely different feelings, both arriving in the same carry-on bag.

I’ve started bringing things back. Something tied to wherever I was, something tangible that says I thought of you while I was here. And it helps a little. But I’ll be honest — I think it helps me more than it helps them. A two year old does not understand the significance of a Wrigley Field magnet. A four year old appreciates it for approximately forty seconds and then it gets absorbed into the toy pile. The gesture is real but the audience is small.

I don’t want to stop traveling. I don’t want to limit these experiences. I’ve worked hard for the career that takes me places and I’m not going to apologize for that. But I haven’t figured out how to fully shake the feeling of carrying a missing piece of yourself through an airport while also genuinely enjoying the trip.

Maybe that’s just what it is. Maybe that specific tension — loving the experience and missing your people at the same time — is just the permanent weather condition of being a working parent who travels.

Or maybe someone out there has actually cracked this. Does anyone bring their kids along when the trip allows for it? Does it make it better or does it just turn a work trip into a different kind of chaos? Tell me everything.

---

Working parents who travel — how do you hold both things at once? Drop it in the comments.