My husband has been out of town for 2 ½ weeks now. We have another 2 ½ weeks to go. I’m tired, overworked and rarely get a moment to myself.
The other day he called me from the drive thru line at a liquor store. They were headed back to the hotel for drinks by the pool. I was at home picking up an entire box of Q-tips flung everywhere by our one year old. Another day he called me from an all you can eat crab restaurant. The food is great and it’s become their new Friday tradition. I was at home microwaving quesadillas with two attention starved kids clinging to my legs still wearing my work clothes because I hadn't had time to change yet. That’s my new everyday tradition. And there’s always a crowd in the car with Scott laughing and joking. Not that my car isn’t full too. Except there’s more screaming in mine. And more people shrieking “Mine.”
It’s not my husband’s fault he’s off in another state. He got sent there for work. He had to go. And I know that he means it when he tells me how much he wishes he was home and how bad he feels that I have to bear the parental heavy lifting right now on my own. He is a good man. Kind and sweet and wonderfully devoted to his home and family. I know that he means it.
But there are days when the discrepancy between his daily routines and mine are hard to swallow. Days when I’m green with envy and it’s hard to make “Have fun!” sound sincere when we get off the phone.
I’m trying hard to rise above it. Trying hard not to make him feel guilty for something he can’t do anything about. But it’s hard. Being tired and overworked and rarely getting a moment to myself tends to make it harder. At least it’s halfway over. And at least Sam’s sells wine coolers and there’s a box in my garage to dull my senses occasionally.