Fair warning – this post may turn into a saccharine ode to my beloved and not-too-long-gone-and-not-at-all-lost hubby.
Sadly, he hasn’t even been gone 24-hours and I’m already doing a tribute. It’s because I’ve been in quite the frenzy since he left, so much so that I double-checked myself in the car to make sure all the appropriate articles of clothing were on the proper parts of my body. Don’t get me wrong, I have always recognized what a good husband and daddy my Hubby is and I appreciate him to no end. But I never realized just how much the little things (like his presence) help me to keep my sanity.
It all started yesterday. I picked Pumpkin up from school per usual. Nothing out of the ordinary there. We get home (to a clean home, no less – thank God for cleaning lady Wednesday). I let the dogs out and pour Pumpkin's evening milk cocktail. Again, typical M.O. The trash is sitting out by the door waiting for me to bring down to the big can on my way out again. No big deal – it’s just one trash bag. So I kennel the dogs and head out for dinner at my parents, tossing the bag in the back of my brand new car.
Unbeknownst to me that darling little one-hip wonder we call a dog had ripped a sizeable hole in the underside of the trash bag. As I lift it up to toss it, I immediately smell AND see a thick, saucy coating of last weekend’s baked beans all over the carpet in my brand new car. Have I mentioned this is my BRAND NEW CAR?
I immediately start cursing that mutt and wondering why we ever rescued him. Using the only cleaning supply at my disposal – baby wipes – I try to mitigate my damage. While this is going on, car-hitch ajar, my brand new car with my sweet little baby inside is filing up with mosquitoes (river life + rain = attack of killer mosquitoes). So, with a handful of bean-soaked baby wipes, I start frantically flailing my arms around trying to scoop the little blood-suckers out of my car. Pumpkin starts screaming – not from any bites (though, sadly, she did have several battle scars), but from my hysterics which I have absolutely terrified her.
Deep breath.
Did I mention it’s Hubby’s job to take out the trash. I never appreciated that contribution until now.
So, crises one and two averted, we’re on our way to dinner with my folks. I decide to swing through the drug store, pick up a prescription and some milk. No biggie. It’s on the way. The parking lot is also decidedly empty, so this is going to be a piece of cake. Sure, it’s Pumpkin’s dinner time, but five minutes aren’t going to kill her.
But you would have thought it did.
We stand in line – and by line I mean there is one old lady in front of me buying a Whitman’s sampler – for thirty minutes. Pumpkin is precious. At first. Then she gets a little, shall we say, bored. Then it’s fidgety. I let her walk around. It doesn’t help. Next thing I know she is whimpering and on the verge of tears. And thirty minutes later, still not having been served (nor had the lady with the chocolates) we left.
If Hubby had been here he would have either been at home feeding her or he would have run to the store for me.
I’ve failed to mention that this entire time my phone is reading “NO SERVICE.” I have no idea what that means. Fast forward an hour and a delicious dinner with my folks and I’m on their land-line (who would have such a passé contraption) allowing the AT&T rep to walk me through all sorts of voodoo dances involving my phone. After a half hour of that, my phone still reads “NO SERVICE.” It’s either a Sim-something or a data-dojiggy, she tells me. Translation: “you need a new phone and the AT&T store is closed; oh, and you don’t have a land line because you and Hubby thought you should just rip all the wires out of the walls when you moved in because NOBODY has land lines anymore.” Damn us.
Eventually I make it home with my borrowed phone (thanks Aunt Robin) and we both settle in for a peaceful night’s sleep. Morning comes and it’s back to business as usual. I’m drinking coffee, doing my makeup and waiting for Pumpkin to wake up. Typically Hubby is on morning call with Pumpkin, but how hard can it be?
After chasing a gecko around my laundry room with a flip flop (Hubby's job) while my dogs (Hubby's job) are barking the neighbors awake outside, I her Pumpkin finally start to stir. Because of the gecko, I’m not quite ready and she slept in 15 extra minutes, but, once again, how hard can it be?
Just about the time I tear her diaper off, she starts twisting her exposed little bottom all over the table, and I’m trying to wrestle her into clothes that are either too small or too big (she’s in that Goldilocks in-between stage) that borrowed phone starts screaming at a decibel not fit for human ears. I answer, only to be asked this question: “Do you know what I did with my passport?”
You can imagine my response (both the one I said out loud and the one I said only in my head).
I guess my ode turned into something more like a rant – more vinegar than saccharine - but all of my under-the-breath-cursing and eye-rolling aside, Pumpkin and I both miss Hubby and appreciate all he does for us. Pumpkin did get to “talk” to Da-da on the phone this morning and it made her little day (she sang “Da-dee-da” all the way to school). So, Hubby – hurry up and get home, we miss you already.
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