Gertie went to stay with the grandparents last night. This was supposed to give me a bit of a break, since she was collected at 5pm. See The Hardest Part is the Evening.
In fact, what happened was that Gilby was just more demanding than ever, and I pined after my daughter ridiculously. I worked out that we have spent a total of fourteen nights apart in her short little life: a week's holiday last year, a few days around the time that Gilbert was due (in case anything happened in the night), and then the odd day here and there with grandparents for babysitting when it was easier for her to be there than for them to come here.
But last night there was no reason for her to be away: we were just home and not doing anything. (We had planned a night away, but the other grandparent, who was supposed to take Gilby, was ill, so the eagerly-awaited first full night of sleep in three and a half months has had to be postponed.) And the house seemed strangely empty without her. It seemed odd walking past her open and empty bedroom, and lonely in the morning without her joining us for cuddles in bed before breakfast.
She came home mid-morning today, so was only gone for 16 hours: 12 of which she would have been asleep for anyway; but I surprised myself completely with how much I missed her. And I was much more tolerant today of any poor behaviour this afternoon, cherishing every minute. I didn't even mind when she had a small tantrum because I had forgotten to roll her sleeves up before washing her hands.
I must be getting soppy in my old age.