Mid-way through our Malaysia vacation, we made a side trip to Singapore. Just south of Malaysia, the island is bristling with skyscrapers, with a squeaky clean populace united by their enduring paranoia of the more free-wheeling societies that surround them.

I’d lived in Singapore briefly as a single person, not entirely happily. Still, Chris and I decided to go to see an old friend of mine from journalism school. We’d take Zoe, 4, our intrepid traveler. Maya, 2, who had not done well on the flight from Minnesota, would stay behind with my parents, we decided. They’d get some quality grandparenting time, she’d be spared the extra plane trip.

We were gone just two days and one night. It was great to see Sonali, and her daughter Tara, 6. Tara got home from school, was greeted by her live-in nanny at the gate, and played the perfect host, taking us swimming in the gorgeous pool just steps from the patio of their apartment. Before long, Sonali arrived home from her job editing forex news for a big Swiss bank, and we caught up on news before falling into bed, exhausted.

The next day, Chris, Zoe and I got on a cable car to Sentosa Island. Funny how motherhood changes your perspective. Sentosa had always encapsulated everything I disliked about Singapore, with its Disney-like atmosphere, garish monuments and beaches created with sand from elsewhere. This time, I saw Sentosa through Zoe’s sparkling eyes. She loved riding in the little capsule above the rainforest canopy, checking out the sharks at the aquarium and eating Ben & Jerry’s on the fake beach.

We called several times a day to check on Maya. “She’s fine,” said my mother. Just once or twice, she added, “she’s been asking ‘Where’s Zoe?’” but “she’s fine.”

When we got back though, Maya was quite changed. Our usually easy sleeper began clinging to us at bedtime, insisting that we lay down with her, holding her, till she fell asleep. She refused to let my mother, or anyone else, hold her. And screamed if Chris or I left the room, running after us in panic.

“This one,” my father said, brow furrowed, “is very sticky.” By the final days of our stay, Maya had degenerated further and was screaming unconsolably each time we tried to put her in a car seat, calming down only if I sat next to her.

I told the story to a friend and she looked at me disapprovingly and said she’d spent every single day with her son until he turned four. Good grief. Another friend, who has an autistic kid, suggested we do what she does before a trip: create a picture book of the upcoming separation and read it to the child complete with the final page of Mom and Dad returning home.

Cribsheeters, tell us your separation anxiety stories. Any tips on how we might have handled things better?

 Maya calls Minnesota from Malaysia.

 “Ayo? Ayo? Grandma Betty?”

This entry was posted on Monday, March 3rd, 2008 at 1:57 pm and is filed under Family Life, Holidays. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.