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| Poor abandoned kid, living in a milk crate. |
First things first: happiest of birthdays to one of my oldest pals (in years of closeness, that is, not oldest-living-friend.) We love you, Auntie Jen! Test the waters o’ 31 for me, I’ll be there in a couple of months.
Now. For the serious news.
P.J. has left me.
For four days.
And it’s…weird. Quite weird. At first, I panicked. You mean I hafta do all of this alone? Feed and bathe and entertain Nora, not to mention single-handedly bulldoze the trails of trolls and miniature bears?
What about dinner?
Who was gonna set the alarm?
What if THE TRASH CAN GOT FULL?
This fear kept me paralyzed for a good…fifteen minutes into Wednesday morning. Then it hit me. What the heck do I do on Wednesdays with P.J., anyhow? Basically, my daily routine wouldn’t change until dinner- which, coincidentally, is my dealie anyway- and bath would be a solo affair. Well, kinda. And sure, meal cleanup would be on me, as would the bulldozing and toddler-wrangling…
…But as P.J. pointed out, I use less dishes than him. I’d probably get a little too used to how clean the house remained. And I certainly wouldn’t have any gigantic clothing to wash (why are men’s clothing so ridiculously heavy in the washer and dryer? Give me a baby’s onesie any day).
This did not stop me from starting a load of laundry at 7am- not my “normal” time. (I usually only do laundry under duress. Like when all the hampers are busting at the sides. Or when Nora is wearing a sundress in March.) I was so impressed at my impressiveness that I did another load. And all of the hand-washing (which had been hanging out for way too long *coughOctobercough*). I scoured the kitchen immediately after Nora had had her breakfast- instead of whining about it right before lunch. I even made breakfast for myself- and ATE it!
It felt like I was going for a medal, like someone was gonna step in and congratulate me on that day for all of the things I do on a normal morning. And, frankly, that I often do for other families during the weekdays. (But- her husband is traveling, the amazed spectators shouted. And she even refilled the cats’ water bowls before they died of thirst!)
I have friends whose husbands travel for work- a lot. And friends with husbands overseas (which brings its own share of awfulness). I’ve seen how hard that can be. And this isn’t that. This isn’t hard. It’s just…weird.
It’s like the absence of my husband makes all of the things I do- without a second glance or thought- seem like Playing House. Each action seems deliberate and with an air of seriousness.
I flossed my teeth this morning. Because the house was clean and the laundry put away and it seemed like something grownup and “in charge” to do.
My sister put it to me best when she said that these are the things you do when you realize there’s NO backup coming. No cavalry. And I think she’s right. Tasks I would’ve saved for after Nora fell asleep when it would be “easier” are just sorta being done. (Purposefully, as if for an audience, but DONE nonetheless.)
I do not, however, enjoy falling asleep without P.J. Sure, it happens all the time, but that’s usually because he’s face down in some couch laundry, working late at his laptop, or Netflixing a war epic that I’d really hate. But he generally comes up to bed sooner or later. After taking out the trash and setting the alarm and [inexplicably] shutting off the hall night light. (Hey! Some of us need that light for multiple bathroom trips. No names, but maybe that same person just saw a particularly creepy episode of Ghost Adventures.)
And it’s the oddest thing. But when he’s not sleeping next to me, my body somehow knows. When he IS there, I sleep through the night and miss the early peeps from our daughter’s baby monitor. When he isn’t? I wake up every fifteen minutes and smack his pillow. (Perhaps it’s best that he’s not there.) Most irritatingly of all, each of these wake-ups ensures another potty break. So that’s fun.
If he must travel (and since he’s already left it looks like he just might) I’ll be a big girl and set the alarm by myself. And maybe- just maybe- take out the trash. Yeah, sure, there might be a light left on upstairs…but that’s just smart. And I’ll do my darndest to not consume any beverages after 6pm…and I’ll try to sleep soundly through the night.
But the first weird noise gets a Louisville Slugger to the face first, questions second.
And if they seem innocuous enough, they can take out the recycling.
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