Leaving On A Jet Plane ...

 

 

 

The nature of my husband’s work means that, periodically, he has to travel.  When the children were younger, he had a time where he was spending three weeks in London, one week at home.   He did that for months.  Because the kids were so young (and also because we were so broke), I wasn’t able to go with him, much to my disappointment.  Those were some long, lonely trips … the kids and I missed him something fierce and he – well, yeah, he missed us, of course, but he was spending his weekends playing tourist ... international travel is hard, but if you ask me (the stay-home spouse) it’s easier on the traveler than it is on the “stay home with two toddlers”  spouse.  But my perspective may be skewed.  There was one trip he was in San Francisco.  I had spent the day cleaning up baby vomit, and dealing with 2 year old tantrums; I hadn’t showered in days and if I recall, dinner that night was a gourmet feast of scrambled eggs.  (“But I don’t like scrambled eggs, Mommy.”  “Tough.  Eat them anyway.”)  He called me that evening to say he was sitting on the balcony of his hotel, watching the sun set over San Francisco Bay, while the turn-down maid was folding down his linens and laying a chocolate gently on his pillow. I found it hard, that evening, to be sympathetic to the woes of the business traveler.

But travel is difficult.  Hotel rooms aren’t home, and frequently the extent of sight-seeing is the airport and the conference room of opposing counsel’s office.  Restaurant meals get tedious when eaten three times a day, and planes and airport travel is never fun.

He came home from work yesterday and said the I-Wasn’t-Paying-That-Much-Attention Case had exploded and he had to go to Birmingham.  For three weeks.  The flight was the next day, at 9:00 a.m. 

Not cool.  Not cool at all.  I hate it when he travels.  Not because I’m having to be a Single Parent for three weeks at a time (which is a freakin’ HARD job, my hat is off to all my single parent friends … I could barely cut it for three weeks.  I have utmost respect for those of you who are doing it, day in and day out, month after month after month … I truly admire you); my kids are grown (~sigh~) and it’s just me and the dog.  I just get awfully lonely when he’s gone.  It’s hard not seeing him every evening and sharing the little bits about our day.  I realize all the things he does that I don’t even appreciate until he’s not here to do them.  He walks the dog, he waters the plants, he takes the trash out … when he’s not here, the plants get brown and droopy, the dog is left to fend for her own exercise (thank you, squirrels, for giving her SOME exercise) and, eww, I have to take the trash out. 

And we’re not even going to discuss the dead-bug-removal situation. 

The first few days he’s gone, it’s not too awful.  I can set the air conditioner on whatever temperature I think is comfortable, I can cook the foods he doesn’t like (Italian food!  Who doesn’t like Italian food?  What kind of lunatic doesn’t like lasagna?) and I can watch whatever I want on TV.  But the novelty of that wears off quickly.  Then, about day 3, it suddenly hits me.  This isn’t fun.  This is just lonely.

Today is Day 1.  I am showered and dressed, and cooked a meal.  Things are still OK; things will be OK for me for the next few days.  By this weekend, tho, it may be a different story.  I don’t do *alone* well.  I need people in my life, I need interaction, I need communication and I need conversation.

I need the next three weeks to fly by so that my plants will get watered, my dog will get walked and the garbage gets taken out by someone OTHER than me.

And I need my honey home. 

It’s gonna be a long, long three weeks.

Presidential Pez Dispensers and Pooh Coffee Mugs

When my son was younger, I can remember him standing in front of me, arms crossed angrily, defiantly telling me “I can’t wait until I’m a grown up and I can do whatever I want and I won’t have to do anything I don’t want to do”.  I would smile and say, “OK.  But until then, you have to clean your room / eat your broccoli / go to sleep / whatever.”   (The irony of him, growing up to be a Soldier isn’t lost on me LOL).  What little children, and some adults, don’t realize is that the flip side to that is you have to also take responsibility for your actions.  About the time you get to the point where you can, indeed, “do whatever you want” (within reason), you also realize that if you never eat a vegetable, you won’t be healthy.  If you never clean your room, you’ll end up on Hoarders: Buried Alive.  If you don’t go to sleep, you’ll be sleep deprived and then make ugly Facebook posts and send irrational text messages to people because you’re exhausted.  Or so I’m told.  (Sorry … and you know who you are, and why I’m apologizing LOL)

We, as adults, spend our lives walking that tightrope between “what we want to do” and “what we should do”.  Rarely do those two things dove-tail perfectly so we frequently find ourselves doing things we don’t want to do, and not doing things we want to do (sorry to disillusion you, future generations, but adulthood is NOT a constant parade of ice cream sundaes and Xbox marathons, curfew-free nights and timeout-free days).

Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty good on *this* side of the adult/child gap; but there are times when you have to put on your big-girl panties and do the “but I don’t WANT to” things in life.

A few months ago, my husband took a Legacy Class at church.  It’s couched in all sorts of pretty words, but the gist of the class is, “You’re gonna die.  Here’s what you need to do before you die to make sure your children are blessed, not burdened, by your legacy.”  Cheery, no?  I mean, I’m not ignorant nor am I naïve; I know that my time here is temporary and I take great joy in knowing that my eternal home waits for me and I anticipate with great expectation spending eternity with my Savior and Lord.  I’m not afraid of death, but I’m not quite ready to check out just yet.  If that’s what God has in mind, I won’t fight Him, but if He gives me decades more, I’m even happier with that.  We did, years ago, make a will.  As that document still says who will be the guardians of our minor children, we realize it needs to be updated.  We also have some other legal odds and ends we need to deal with, so my husband, being the responsible adult he is, has made an appointment with a lawyer who specializes in Estate Planning to discuss our “legacy”. 

Estate Planning.  That makes me laugh.  Sounds like we’re Downton Abbey type folks, deciding who gets the jewels and who gets the thoroughbred ponies and who gets the antique silver.  I hardly think a collection of Winnie the Pooh coffee mugs and a complete set of Presidential Pez Dispensers counts as an “estate”.  Still, we, as responsible adults need to update our will because we are responsible adults and that’s what responsible adults do.

I also gathered up our important papers and put them in a binder.  I wanted to call the binder “Very Important Papers File”, but realized I’d shorthand it to VIP File and that means something else … so I settled on Really Important Papers File”.  When I went to make the label for the spine, I realized it was now our RIP File.  Hmm. 

I realize that doing these things are part and parcel of being an adult, and I’m really OK with it all.  We’ll meet with our Estate Planner lawyer (I’ll not wear my tiara nor will I ask for a cup of tea in fine china, but I might just add a clause about the distribution and disbursement of the Pooh Collection LOL) and I’ll update my RIP File as the information in it changes … because I am an adult and I am responsible.  Or at least, I want to give the illusion that I am both an adult and responsible.

Just as I was patting myself on the back for being so mature, my husband mentions oh-so-casually, “Have you thought about which cemetery you want us to be buried in?”  What?  Eww.  No.  I have most certainly NOT thought about that.  “I was thinking we ought to decide, and then maybe look into pre-planning our funerals.”  He wanted to have a whole conversation about where, what type of headstone we wanted, he wants to pick out our caskets, plan the music, decide on the flowers … all of it. 

~~sigh~~

“It will make it easier on the kids if we’ve already decided everything.”

 Yes, I know that, but … eww.

~~sigh~~

“Remember what a nightmare it was when (loved one) died unexpectedly and nothing was planned and the family had to scramble at the last minute to make the arrangements?” 

Yes, I know that, but … eww.

~~sigh~~

“Remember when (other loved one) died, and they had prearranged everything?  All we had to do was pick up the phone and call the funeral director, and with one phone call, everything was handled?” 

Yes, I know that, but … eww.

~~sigh~~

So guess what?  In addition to meeting with the Estate Planning Lawyer (through which I can mentally giggle, imagining myself in a tiara, drinking tea, while deciding who gets the polo ponies), we are going to check out various funeral homes and cemeteries.  Eww.

~~sigh~~

 Sometimes being an adult is, indeed, a broccoli-free adventure, but sometimes, it’s kind of … icky.  And truth be told, interviewing funeral homes and walking through cemeteries, saying things like, “Ah, yes, this is a delightful spot, nice and shady” is just … icky. 

I’ll go, because it’s part of the “put on your big girl panties and just do it” part of being adult.  I’ll even, on the outside, look all serious and like I’m seriously debating if the pale pink satin lining is better than the creamy, off-white silk lining.  But inside, I’ll be giggling, imagining what that mahogany-with-brass-handles casket will look like, all festooned with Winnie the Pooh stickers.   I hope that, when our time comes, our legacy isn’t one of sadness and tears but of laughter and giggles, and Winnie the Pooh coffee mugs and Presidential Pez Dispensers.

And SOMEONE had better slap a Winnie the Pooh sticker on my casket, right next to the brass handles … because wouldn’t *that* be a great final chapter to the legacy of great-grandma Sandra?  I think so! 

I think I’m going to print this out and put it in my RIP file so that my anticipated, future great-grand children can know why there is a package of Pooh stickers in the safe deposit box.

It’s not polo ponies, or jewels or antique silver, but it’s more fun!