My son Tenzin is playing with his Legos on the floor by my bed as I contemplate packing for upcoming speaking engagements. Ten days, three climates: your basic sartorial nightmare. I'll need boots, I think, but maybe I can get away with only one coat.

"Mommy is going on the airplane today," I tell Tenzin, for the fifth time in the last twenty-four hours. According to my pediatrician, telling my three year-old ahead of time is one thing I can do to ease the separation anxiety.

It doesn't seem to be working.

"But I don't want Mommy to go on the airplane again," he says, looking up from his multi-colored creation.

"I know, honey. Mommy doesn't want to leave either, but I will be home soon and then we can go on an adventure!"

"Like, to the car wash?"

"Yep."

"But, Mommy?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Tenzin doesn't want Mommy to go on the airplane."

Sigh.

Leaving home every month is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Each time I leave Tenzin, usually for four or five days, but sometimes two or three weeks, I feel as if I am performing some kind of amputation. What appendage would my son be? My arm, my leg? More like my heart. A piece of myself I can't live without.

I marvel at these new feelings. In my twenties, I didn't think twice about throwing a few pairs of shoes and some homeopathic remedies in a bag to hop on a plane. I knew I'd return with an expanded view of myself and the world, and at least one gorgeous object to remember the trip forever.

Now, I sometimes think I could stay in my house until Tenzin goes to college. Really, I tell my son's father, I can play Scrabulous on Facebook, take virtual tours of Zaha Hadid's buildings on the web, and donate money to my favorite non-profits with a click of my mouse. I can read at least a few of the books stacked on my desk. The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz, for example.

He laughs. But you love The Road, he says. The people, the hotels, the long walks through newstreets. Just last week you told me you wanted to live in Lima for a month. He's right. I still have wanderlust. And I can't say I don't need a break from the boy every now and then.

But I've come to appreciate the magic and mystery of home. After years of nomadic life, it's as if I've finally cracked the code. Predictable is another word for stable. What I called used to call boring is really just drama-free. And like every other amazing journey, the daily trials of life with a toddler teach me a little bit more about myself every day.

At the airport I stand and watch all that is precious to me drive away from the curb. I've done everything I can to prepare for this moment. I've chosen a partner I trust to take care of our son while I'm away, and I've got Skype and iCam hooked up and ready to go. But I'm most proud of what I've done on the inside: I've come to understand the true value of the people I leave behind.

Walking to the check-in kiosk, I keep myself from crying by thinking about all of the parents who say goodbye to a piece of themselves every morning, every week, every year. I think of the millions of mothers and fathers who had to say goodbye forever.

And I count my blessings.

How do you handle leaving your kids?