I've said it before: We're not afraid to spend time away from our children. We think it's important for our marriage, for ourselves, for our daughters, even. I've said it nonchalantly, like it's no big deal. But the night before we left for New Orleans, Mirabella sobbed. This was new. Turns out it's much harder to leave your children for a few days when they are anxious about it.

But, thanks to an exciting visit from Aunt Amy, who gave the girls an awesome few days, Wednesday we flew. We spent the day riding streetcars, wandering the Garden District, inappropriately taking photos of real people's homes, and being sat in the "Patio Room" of Commander's Palace for lunch. Make no mistake, this might as well be called the "Room for Under-dressed Misfits." Giacomo led us past the crystal chandeliers and seersucker suits and through the kitchen to get there. Whatever.

Later we strolled through the French Quarter, bought art in Jackson Square, and ate a late dinner at the gorgeous Cafe Amélie. Thursday, since Daniel would be in meetings all day and into the night, he surprised me with a half-day at the spa. A Mother's Day present, he said. I was thrilled.  But again, as in San Francisco, I was nervous. I made him map the route from our hotel to the spa with me. I asked about safe streets to walk. I worried about eating alone. I hated to feel that way.

It is so infrequent anymore that I am alone, out in the world. I forget what to do with my hands, how to carry myself. I sometimes forget I am a complete person, just me, capable of functioning independently. After coffee and a croissant at an outdoor cafe I navigated myself to, I started to remember. I made it to the spa right on time, trying to act cool, like I'd been there before. Then I realized the goofy smile on my face was giving me away.

"My husband surprised me," I said, to anyone who might listen. "I've never done this before." I probably didn't need to say that last part; I loved every minute of it. Four hours later I bounced down Royal toward the French Market for lunch. I opted for an outdoor café that had live music and even ordered "traditional" Cajun food. A waiter (who was not my own) started chatting me up about where I was from, what I'd been doing, and what I thought of New Orleans. And then I realized he didn't necessarily care about any of my answers. I was so unaccustomed to being "hit on" it didn't even occur to me this man in Crocs and an apron was doing it. I mentioned that I was just tagging along on my husband's work trip and-- what do you know-- he was gone.

For the next couple hours, I walked, buying little souvenirs and taking pictures along the river. I had a grand plan to sit beside the rooftop pool and read a book-- I couldn't wait. I walked back to the hotel, stopping for an iced coffee before heading up to my room.  When I went to pay I realized I never collected my credit card from lunch. So maybe my feelings of incompetence were not entirely off base. In my Tevas I walked the 1.5 miles round trip to retrieve the card and finally made it to the pool to read. I took a shower and took my time getting ready, waiting for Daniel to come get me. It was a glorious day.

We spent the evening with some of his colleagues on Bourbon Street, where I was again surprised by the lack of professionalism I've seen at "work functions" and that I was hit in the head with beads thrown from a balcony overhead. "Honey!" Daniel said, "Good job! Someone threw beads at you!" Bourbon Street was not my favorite.

Friday I slept.  Late into the morning while my darling husband did whatever he does on these trips. We walked the rainy streets together, had a fantastic dinner at Muriel's and took a pedicab to Frenchmen Street to listen to live music. By the time we ate our beignets Saturday morning, I was happy, tired, and ready to get home to our little girls.

We returned in time for the girls to bring me breakfast in bed (and eat most of it), and put on a private ballet recital in our living room.

The trip was two weeks ago now, and feels like a distant memory. Still I'm so grateful for time away and the reminders it brings: of the love and friendship I still have with my husband (of seven years and one day), of the spunky girl that is still under the mom somewhere, and that-- while the stillness and quiet and occasional ability to read a book are blissful-- those noisy, demanding, hysterical little girls make my life full.

Traveling in the preschool circles we do, we’ve become familiar with the concept of being a “bucket filler,” where the bucket is a person’s mental and emotional self and where we make choices to fill others’ buckets (with loving and kind acts) rather than empty them.

Recently we’ve been discussing this at home, in an attempt to help the girls act lovingly to each other and speak kindly. Since then I’ve been thinking about how maybe this doesn’t apply only to others. Maybe it applies to ourselves.

Over the last couple weeks, we’ve noticed a shift in our older daughter’s behavior. Whereas we had a rough six months or so, with tantrums and anger, lately things have changed. She will proactively apologize now, and she will become very upset for having hurt or disappointed someone. At first this came as a great relief to us. But I’m noticing she is so distraught over the slightest infraction that she says things like, “I’m mad at myself” or “I’m upset at myself.” And this won’t do.

In this behavior I see myself, as a young child. I was what I would call self-regulating. Not perfect, of course not. But disappointed parents, a stern-faced teacher, a betrayed friend— these would all be enough to make me physically sick and send myself to my own room. I didn’t need my parents to ground me; I grounded myself. And while this made for a well-behaved and compliant child, now that I see it in my own child, my heart cringes.

I want her to be kind. I want her to think of others before acting, before speaking. I want her to be concerned for the feelings and well-being of others, of course. But maybe even more than that I want her to be well, to be filled to overflowing with peace and joy, to be confident and content with who she is. And if she can’t let go of the smallest or unintentional of hurts she has caused, she can’t be at peace.

As a mother I am teacher, example setter, disciplinarian when needed. I need to correct her sometimes; I need to teach her the better way.  But I’m learning I need to be ever careful not to crush her tender spirit in the process, and even when I’m very gentle, this is proving to be hard.

Thus far we have focused outward, stressed the importance of showing kindness to others, grace to others, forgiveness to others, as Christ has forgiven us. Necessarily now we are shifting focus—just as we need to love others and treat them gently, we need to love ourselves. We can’t rely solely on others to fill our buckets—we need to take responsibility for it as well. This concept is so simple and yet so far from elementary. I have these aspirations for my five year old to master a concept I am learning more about only in this teaching.

We talk about the process of asking for forgiveness. Today, after an incident when she had trouble letting go, I reminded her, “Remember the three steps when you make a mistake, Mirabella? Ask for forgiveness, think of a way to keep the same thing from happening again, and move on.”

“Then forgive yourself, right Mama? So really that’s four steps.”

Always I am teaching and learning, not usually able to tell which is happening at any given moment. In this Mirabella reminds me not to look to my husband, my children, my knowledge of the future, my work or my friends to make me happy. It’s not their job. Teaching these lessons reminds me that, in the endless filling of everyone else’s buckets, it would do us well to prioritize filling our own.