I hate taking people to the airport. Hate it hate it hate it. We all stand together at the gate, them ready to take their shoes off and empty out their bags for customs and me trying not to think things like "I won't see them now for another year". Come crunch time we all hug and kiss and say how much we love each other. Usually I'm the one that cries the most, the one being left behind as it were. The journey home is always terrible. It constitutes me bawling and feeling that knot of homesickness creep into my belly. The feeling lasts anywhere from a few days to a couple of weeks but does get slightly better once I know the travellers are home and safe. Having Jack with me helps because he keeps the mood light, but then all it takes is for a grandparent to hug him close and kiss his little head and I'm off again, blubbering like a schoolgirl that just got dumped.
After we left the terminal yesterday I took Jack to the roof of the parking lot and we waved at the first plane that took off, shouting "Goodbye Grandma and Grandad!" Little did I know that they were actually close by at their gate, watching us from behind tinted glass windows as we waved frantically at "their" plane leaving.
Today they are home safe and sound, drinking tea and digging out their warm cardies (it's cold and rainy in NW England). Now we have to work out how to Skype each other.
Our next visitors, Craig's mum and dad, arrive in eight weeks time. Time for me to get rid of this knot in my stomach before it jumps right back in.