I stepped into my hotel room to a pleasant surprise.
Lots of room surrounded an inviting king-size bed, flanked by overstuffed armchairs that rested against sliding glass doors that opened onto a private patio.
A small dining table sat next to a kitchenette with a separate sink, refrigerator and coffee machine.
“Wow,” I thought to myself. “Nice place.”
I love hotels—from the Holiday Inn Express to the Ritz-Carlton and everything in between.
I love to enter a clean room, hang my clothes and gaze out the window, walk out in the morning knowing that each afternoon when I return, someone else will have made the bed.
I like in-room dining and the way they greet you so professionally.
“Nice to have you with us again, Mr. Goldsborough.”
Very cool.
The problem is that unless Alison travels with me, I never sleep well in hotels. I miss my family.
Even though Linus and Camille, at ages 4 and almost 2, find a way to interrupt even the best night’s sleep at home, still, I’d rather be with them.
I’ll take Linus clamoring over me at five AM or a kick in the chin from Camille over the finest linens and a chocolate on my pillow.
When I’m on the road I yearn for my loved ones.
I’m deeply troubled by the number of parents who wake up too late with the realization:
“My children grew up too fast. In the hustle-bustle of career and corporate rat race, I missed their childhood.”
What they fail to say but too often inwardly think causes me even more pain:
“…and I barely even know them.”
This applies to couples as - continued below ...