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.