By: An Overthinker Who Hasn’t Slept in 72 Hours

The Great Toddler Escape Plan

So. Here we are. After 3+ years of being surgically attached to my tiny human (who may or may not believe we share a bloodstream), I am voluntarily leaving her. For a WHOLE WEEK. To go ABROAD. For work.

Yes, I know—what kind of monster am I?

My parents (bless their patient souls) will be on duty, armed with 70% Dark chocolates and decades of child-rearing experience. Logically, I know she’ll be fine.

Emotionally?

I’ve already drafted 37 backup plans in case she forgets my face.

The Stages of Pre-Trip Guilt

1. Denial

"It’s just a week! She’ll barely notice!"(Proceeds to ugly-cry while packing her favorite stuffed animal "for emotional support.")

2. Bargaining

"Maybe I can just… not go? Fake a sudden allergy to airplanes? Develop a rare condition where my presence is medically necessary within a 2-mile radius of my child?"

3. Over-Preparation

Wrote a 14-page manual titled "How to Keep My Child Alive (and Preferably Happy)."
Stockpiled her favorite snacks like we’re prepping for the toddler apocalypse.
Taught my mom how to use video calls, which will inevitably end with my child licking the screen.

4. Suspicion

"What if she learns a new skill while I’m gone? Says her first swear word? Decides Grandma’s pancakes are better than mine? WHAT IF SHE REPLACES ME?"

The Relatives Are (Probably) Fine

Look, my parents raised me, and I turned out… questionably functional. But here’s why I’m low-key terrified:

Grandpa’s Idea of ‘Nutrition’: "She ate 3 popsicles and called it ‘lunch’? That counts as fruit!"
Grandma’s Bedtime Rules: "Oh, we just watch cartoons until she passes out on the couch. Works every time!"
The Uncle/Aunt Wildcard: They’ll either spoil her rotten or accidentally teach her to say "Pagal" before I return.

What My Kid Will Actually Do

Day 1: Cries for 8 minutes, then discovers Grandpa’s secret candy stash.
Day 3: Forgets my name, refers to me as "that lady in the phone."
Day 5: Learns to negotiate dessert for breakfast. From my dad. The enabler.
Day 7: Casually waves when I return, then asks Grandma for more ice cream.

What I’ll Actually Do

Hour 1 on the Plane: Panic-text my mom. "IS SHE ASKING FOR ME??"
Day 2: Stare at photos of her like a lovesick teenager.
Day 4: Consider quitting my job to become a full-time snack distributor.
Day 6: Realize I’ve been wearing the same socks for 48 hours because no one yelled "STINKY!" at me.

The Silver Linings (Because I Need Them)

I will sleep. Glorious, uninterrupted, no-one-is-kicking-me-in-the-spine sleep.
Hot coffee. No tiny hands will catapult it across the room.
Adult conversations. No one will interrupt me to ask "But why?" 47 times in a row.