I’m on the plane listening to Gil Scot Heron’s Save the Children on noise reduction headphones.Two more hours until we land, and I can’t wait to see that little boy of mine at the airport. He’ll look at me as if I left yesterday and we haven’t been video-phoning every night.

He’ll say, “Hi Mommy.” And then, when he’s sure I’m actually in the car and he’s not imagining the whole thing, he’ll say, “But I missed you Mommy.”

And I will have to do everything in my power not to turn into a complete,over-the-top mom who hasn’t had her baby fix in ten days. I will want to take him out of his car seat and hug him and rub my cheek against his and tell him how terrible it was to be away from him. 

Of course, this is not advisable. Leaving home is tough, but returning isn’t easy,either. I have to consider, for example, how to best honor the routines he and his Dad have developed in my absence. How to integrate myself slowly, and not force a dramatic upset to what has been a smooth running ship. How can I re-enter in a way that allows for the intimacy of our mother-son bond without rendering Daddy invisible, or worse, unappreciated?

Because in addition to the mommy-fest that could go on, there’s also my borderline OCD about cleanliness and order that can get flared. I’m sure that once I get home, sheets will need to be washed, toys put away, crayons returned to the art box. For the first forty-eight hours I will have to force myself from turning into a whirling dervish of spotlessness—a box of Ecover surface cleaner on every counter.  

After all, Daddy’s been holding it down for ten days, and I spend a great deal of my time on the road speaking about how men are problematized in the narrative offemale empowerment. The work they do, especially when it isn't traditionally defined as "men's work," often goes unappreciated or at worst, ridiculed.

So I kind of have to get my mind together, quick.

As Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba sing Malaika, I plan my re-entry. I think about how I will try to be calm, cool and collected when I see Tenzin. I will kiss him, and tell him I’m happy to see him, but I will also slip into the car rather quietly. I will give him space to open up if he wants. I will not overwhelm him with my emotions.

I will exercise this restraint in the car and once we get home, where I will not focus on all the things that aren't perfectly in order, because I know if I do,every leave-taking and homecoming from now until forever will be hysterical events full of angst and drama. If I don’t integrate these moments of transition into a larger narrative of rational peace, I think, I will set all of us up for many, many episodes of pain and suffering.

John Legend croons Each Day Gets Better and I fantasize about how, in the coming days, Tenzin and I will share many small, quiet moments. 

He will say, “But Mommy, I really missed you.” And I will say, “I know sweet boy, I missed you too. But you had a good time with Daddy, didn't you?" And he'll remember all of that time, too, and say "Mmmhmm, we went to see the fish and we went to the restaurant and we read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom."

And I'll say, "Yep. It's fun hanging with Daddy." And then we’ll keep going until the next moment when he turns to me and says, “Mommy, I have one more point.” “Yes, Tenzin?” "I'm glad you're here, Mommy.” And I will laugh and kiss him and finally, finally, feel that I’m home.

How do you handle re-entry?