A hotel is never the same as home. When you have been away on intense travel for a few months, and you come home, you notice what you do not get when you are away without the family.
In a hotel room:
You do not get to wake up to the sounds of your kids inviting themselves into your bedroom.
You do not get your 4-year-old son climbing next to you in bed, and shoving a book into your hands, saying "Papa, read" (and it is not a picture book with a few lines per page, but a wordy Thomas the Tank Engine tome about Duck the Great Western and the evil Diesel).
You do not get to see your youngest 20-month-old daughter walking into the bedroom, greeting her brother with a cheery "Hi!"
You do not get to see your wife's face light up at seeing her brood troop in while she is getting ready for work.
You do not get to see Isaac telling his baby sister, "Say good morning Papa, Joy!"
You do not get to hear Joy saying "oot awning, Papa!"
You do not get to listen to the wife as she tells you about her day at work.
You do not have to stop Isaac and Joy from fighting over who gets to sit next to Papa in bed.
You do not get to seat Isaac on one side of you and Joy on the other, as you lie in bed reading the Thomas the Tank Engine book to both of them.
You do not have to tell Isaac not to snatch the baby-sized toast from Joy's hands and to get his own breakfast in the kitchen.
You do not have to tell Isaac for the umpteenth time, to watch TV from the sofa and not 2 inches from the screen.
You do not get to see how big your oldest daughter, Faith, aged six, has grown.
You do not get to be there when they fitted Faith with custom-made $400 braces for her feet to fix her toe-walking.
You do not get to follow Faith to the kitchen, and see her locate her purple cup herself, stick the cup at you, indicating she wants a drink of water.
You do not get to see the usual patch of water on Faith's dress because she still hasn't learned how to drink without spilling a little water on herself.
You do not get to hear Faith's loud vocalizations, the long "ah"s, her way of "speaking". You do not get to see the priceless worried look on Joy's face as she tries to figure out why her older sister is making that joyful loud noise.
You do not get to enjoy the transparent way your autistic oldest girl displays her pleasure of being in your company, of your being home.
You do not get the bittersweet feeling of leaving for work, and seeing Joy wave goodbye, and Faith is trying to follow you into the lift, making little sounds of protest.
You do not get the feeling that when you come back, you will see the kids again.
But I am home now. Not in a hotel.
And boy, am I enjoying every moment of my little chaotic kingdom in the mornings.