Feeling Guilty About Being Away From Your Kid? Small, Simple Rituals That Help Both Of You
Last Tuesday, I stood by my front door pulling the zipper on my rolling suitcase, and my four-year-old, Leo, wrapped both arms around my left calf. His sock had a hole worn through the big toe, and there was a smudge of goldfish cracker cheese on his jaw. “Don’t go, Mommy,” he mumbled into my jeans. I lifted my bag a little, and he held on tighter, and that old familiar guilt crawled up from my chest to my throat. I travel two or three times a month for my job, and some trips, that guilt is so heavy it makes me want to throw my suitcase back in the closet and quit.
A year and a half ago, I came home from a four-day conference, and Leo wouldn’t speak to me for an hour. He hid behind my husband’s legs when I tried to hug him, and when I finally got him to sit on my lap, he just pushed my face away and stared at the floor. I cried in the shower that night, convinced I was ruining his sense of security, that every time I left I was carving a little gap between us that would never close. I brought all that up at his next parent-teacher conference with Ms. Rita, his preschool teacher who’s been doing this longer than I’ve been alive. I expected her to pat my hand and tell me it would be okay, but she pulled out Leo’s daily journal and flipped to a page of messy drawings.
She said, “Look, every day you were gone, he drew this. It’s you, holding a rock, right?” It was a lumpy stick figure with a dark dot in the middle, that was the smooth rock we’d found on a hike the month before. She said, “He brings that rock to circle time every morning. He tells the class it’s his mommy rock. When he’s sad at drop-off, he holds it. When he misses you, he holds it. He doesn’t carry it because he’s broken. He carries it because he already has a way to feel close to you when you’re not here.” That was the first time I started thinking about my guilt differently. I’d been so focused on how bad I felt about leaving that I wasn’t focused on what Leo actually needed to feel okay when I was gone.
I started testing small, low-effort rituals that didn’t require me to quit my job or spend hours on FaceTime every night. First, I stopped sneaking out when I leave early for a flight before he wakes up. That used to be my trick—avoid the crying, make it easier on everyone. But Ms. Rita explained that when kids wake up and you’re already gone, they can’t hold onto the plan you told them the night before. The absence feels random, and that’s what sparks anxiety, not the leaving itself. Now, I always set my alarm 10 minutes early, wake him just enough for a sleepy hug, and tell him exactly when I’ll be back in terms he understands. I don’t say “I’ll be home in three days.” I say “I’ll be home after you have three more bedtimes and three more breakfasts with Daddy.” Kids don’t grasp abstract time, but they know the routines they live every day. When I do leave before he wakes up, I leave a sticky note doodled on his cereal bowl—always the same silly giraffe we draw together—and a one-line note about something small we’ll do when I’m back, like “We’ll get sprinkles on our ice cream after school.”
We have matching rock tokens now, too. Leo keeps his in his jacket pocket, I keep mine in my work laptop bag. If he’s upset when I’m gone, he can squeeze it, and I squeeze mine when I’m thinking of him. When I call or FaceTime, I don’t lead with “Do you miss me?” That question just makes him sad, and he usually clams up. Instead, I ask a specific, silly question that gives us a small shared moment: “Did the cat knock over the spider plant by the window today?” “What topping did you put on your pizza for dinner?” It keeps the call light, and it reminds him I still know the little details of his day even when I’m not there. When I come home, I always bring the same thing: a lemon drop candy from the airport kiosk. It’s cheap, it’s the same every time, and he looks for it the second I walk in the door. It’s a predictable signal that I’m back, that my coming home is something he can count on.
It’s not perfect. Last week, after I pried Leo’s arms off my leg and got in the car, I still cried a little on the drive to the airport. I still scroll through social media and see parents who bake homemade bread every day and never miss a soccer practice, and I feel that old twinge. But I’ve also watched what happens when I’m gone now. Last month, I was gone five days for a work retreat, and when I got home late at night, Leo was asleep on the couch waiting for me. His rock was sitting on the coffee table right next to a half-colored drawing he made of us at the zoo, and the sticky note I’d left on his cereal bowl that first morning was stuck to the fridge, next to my husband’s grocery list. When I picked him up, he mumbled “Did you get my candy?” half asleep, and that was it. No silent treatment, no hiding. He just wanted his candy and his bed.
I used to think that the amount of time I spent with Leo was the only thing that mattered. I thought if I wasn’t there for every dinner, every bedtime, every playground trip, I was failing. But what I’ve learned, from watching Leo and from what Ms. Rita told me, is that kids don’t need constant, perfect presence. They need consistency. They need to know when you’re leaving, when you’re coming back, and that you’re thinking of them even when you’re not there. The guilt I feel is my feeling, not Leo’s. I carried it for so long because I thought it meant I cared, but it doesn’t help either of us. What helps is the 10 minutes to wake him up before I leave, the sticky note on the cereal bowl, the matching rocks. Those are small things, but they stick.
I’m still going to feel that twist in my chest when Leo clings to my leg before a trip. I don’t think that guilt ever goes away completely, not when you love someone that much. But now, after I buckle my seatbelt on the plane, I pull my matching rock out of my laptop bag and squeeze it once. I know Leo’s got his in his pocket. We’re okay, even when we’re not together.
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