After much trepidation and dread, the day has finally arrived for my husband to leave on his annual ice fishing trip. I hate this trip every year, because in the 7th grade, my best friend's dad died during an ice fishing trip, and I can not seem to shake the sense of foreboding associated with it. (Read: I am scared out of my wits). This year, it is even worse than normal, and compounded by the fact that the baby is teething and has had some rough nights. There is nothing I hate worse that being tired. Excursions such as these always sharpen my appreciation for military wives, single mom's, and women with useless husbands.
My husband, being the wonderful specimen that he is, has made it as easy as possible for me, by doing things like: making sure I have enough pellets for the stove and gas in my car, filling up the water softener, changing batteries in nearly everything, and making sure the gun is readily accessible in case I need to shoot an intruder. So, I really have nothing to complain about, and besides, when my husband and I got married, though we said the traditional wedding vows, I silently and secretly vowed never to resent hunting and fishing, because these are who he was before we met. Though I have not been entirely successful with this, as it gets exponentially more difficult with each child, I was pleased with the more grown up way I seemed to handle it this year. Maybe I have finally learned what I have trying to teach my six year old: Tantrums are simply unbecoming; they never change anything.
My mom and sister are coming for part of it, and I have lots of projects planned for us, so that will help some, but not with the nights. I also plan on reading a novel.
I always do this to myself; try to trick my brain into thinking of it as some sort of relaxing retreat, which I know is totally bogus, because who in there right mind would consider taking care of three kids with no husband a relaxing retreat? But it's all I've got, so I go for it.
It's strange for me to feel this way, I used to love living alone. Maybe having someone to depend on weakens a person somehow....
The time comes, and he kisses us goodbye. I try to put on my figurative big girl panties, but I've got a lump in my throat. It's going to be a long four days if I can't summon a stronger version of myself, but I've momentarily forgotten how. He is gone, and Baylie needs breakfast, and Colt needs to go potty, and I remember: the key is to keep moving, to try to immerse myself in the task at hand, so I do that. It will get me through until bedtime, where I will be alone with my anxiety, in my carvernous bed. It's nice though, being with someone you miss so much it hurts, and I know it's good for him to go. He deserves it. (Never mind that I could never say to him "I'll be gone 4 days around the 25th, have fun with the kids, see you when I get back." says the other part of my brain.....) Sigh.
Anyway, I have no sparkling wit to offer today, just a prayer request for safe travels and that I find my big girl panties ( maybe they are in washing machine oblivion, with the baby socks?)....In the meanwhile, I think I'll go put on some lipstick ;).
No comments:
Post a Comment