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It's Good to Come Home

My girl rushed at me last night in a blur of pink stripes and bouncy brown hair.

"Mami!'' she yelled, running toward me, arms outstretched.

Few sights ever have been better.

I picked my Maria up and squeezed her with all my strength. She squeezed back with all of hers. We both smiled broadly, oblivious to anyone else in the Nashville airport.

I was home after five days away in Denver, where I combined business with pleasure. I got to hang out with my two best friends -- both my former newsroom co-workers -- and work on a consulting gig with one of them. The double bonus, of course, was getting to see their beautiful families and spending time in glorious Colorado, with its soul-stirring views of snow-topped majestic-ness.

It would be an untruth to say I was not thrilled to leave, to be responsible only for myself and not the morning rush, the carpool, the dance class, the breakfast, the lunch, the dinner, the hair-washing, and the bedtime reluctance, and all the other stuff, plus my own work, in between.

And, of course, most of all I wanted my husband, helpful and competent as he is, to get a first-hand look at why I am brain-wave deficient by 8 p.m. each evening. A couple of days into my trip, he said on the phone: "It just doesn't stop, does it?'' Score.

This morning, when my alarm sounded its bossy 5:45 a.m. call, it was my pleasure to hear it. Refreshed and renewed, I woke ready for the routine once again. I walked up the stairs, with coffee for me and milk for Maria, knowing there was absolutely no where else I would rather be today.

For sure, it does me good to get away. And, then it does me even better to get home.

Visit Bilingual in the Boonies and Los Pollitos Dicen.

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