It’s a sticky May afternoon in Chicago, and I’m kneeling beside my son’s open suitcase, watching him stuff his favorite dinosaur plushie—“Rexy”—into a corner already overflowing with mismatched socks. “Mom, do I need my swim trunks?” six-year-old Ethan asks, nose scrunched. I bite back a smile; he’s forgotten that while Illinois bakes in July, Sydney shivers in its gentle winter. Time zones, hemispheres, a mother’s brain struggling to keep up.
The Plan: Born from Long-Distance Longing
My sister Clara has lived in Melbourne for a decade, but Ethan only remembers her as the voice on FaceTime who sends kangaroo-shaped cookies at Christmas. When she offered to host him for four weeks this summer—their winter, our summer—I hesitated. American summer break starts mid-June, and the idea of my baby boarding a 16-hour flight without me felt both brave and reckless. But Clara’s last visit, when Ethan clung to her leg for three days straight, changed my mind. “He’ll thrive with cousin Lila,” she’d said. “And I’ll send you 100 photos a day. Promise.”
So here we are, five weeks out. Ethan’s calendar—decorated with stick-on stars—marks June 20th: Fly to Auntie Clara’s! Below it, I’ve scribbled reminders in messy mom-script: Vaccine records, Aussie plug adapter, explain that “jumper” means sweater, not a jumpsuit.
The Prep: A Symphony of Lists and Laughter
Clara and I text daily, a flurry of practicality and nostalgia. “Does he like Vegemite?” she asks. “Absolutely not,” I reply, “but pack Nutella just in case.” She sends photos of the twin bed she’s set up in Lila’s room, sheets covered in koalas. “We’ll visit the Melbourne Zoo—they’ve got a new platypus exhibit,” she writes. Ethan, who’s obsessed with “weird animals,” bounces off the couch when I show him the video.
But there are quieter moments too. Last night, he climbed into my bed, Rexy squished between us. “What if I forget how to speak English?” he mumbled, half-asleep. I kissed his forehead, amused by his toddler-logic. “Auntie Clara speaks English, silly. With a fancy accent, remember?” He giggled, and I wondered if he’d miss me half as much as I’d miss him.
The Heartache: Letting Go (Temporarily)
American summers are meant for lazy days at the lake, but this year, our routine feels charged with purpose. We’re practicing independent tooth-brushing (“Auntie won’t do it for you, buddy”) and packing reusable water bottles (“Melbourne tap water is delicious, Clara swears”). I even let him pick out a “big boy” suitcase—navy blue with rocket ships—hoping the novelty will ease the goodbye.
Yet every time I fold his tiny sweaters (Clara insists it’ll be “chilly, but not Chicago-chilly”), my chest tightens. I imagine her picking him up at Tullamarine Airport, her curly hair bouncing as she waves, Ethan’s nervous grin melting into excitement. I imagine Lila, three years older, showing him how to feed the neighborhood kookaburras, or Clara tucking them both into bed with a story—in her voice, not mine.
The Hope: Growth in Every Hemisphere
Clara isn’t just my sister; she’s the woman who taught me to ride a bike, who sent me care packages when I moved to New York. Now, she’ll be Ethan’s temporary anchor—showing him a world beyond our Midwest bubble. “He’ll learn so much,” my husband says, kissing my forehead as I fret over whether he packed enough underwear. Learn to be brave, maybe. Learn that home isn’t just a place, but people who love you.
Yesterday, Ethan drew a picture: stick figures holding hands—me, him, Clara, Lila, even Rexy—above a 歪歪扭扭 “Australia.” “We’ll have adventures,” he declared, jabbing the paper with a crayon. His confidence is contagious. Maybe this isn’t just about letting go; it’s about expanding the circle of love that holds him.
The Countdown: Days, Not Just Dates
As May turns to June, our kitchen counter accumulates travel essentials: a new journal for Ethan to draw his adventures, a prepaid phone for Clara (“Call anytime, even if it’s 3 a.m. here”), and a small jar of his favorite peanut butter (“Just in case Vegemite fails,” Clara joked).
I don’t know if I’ll cry at O’Hare when he walks through security, tiny backpack bouncing. I don’t know if he’ll wake up homesick, or if he’ll beg to stay longer. But I do know this: Clara will tuck him in with the same lullaby our mom used, and Rexy will guard his pillow, and somehow, across 9,000 miles, my heart will feel both lighter and fuller.
For now, I’ll cherish these last weeks—ice cream trucks, firefly nights, the smell of his sunscreen-misted skin. Soon enough, he’ll be in Australia, chasing kookaburras with his aunt, while I count the days until he comes home… and maybe steal a few quiet mornings to sip coffee without a dinosaur demanding “more cereal, please.”
After all, even moms deserve a mini-adventure in letting go.
