My bad.

Look, self, kids are gonna be kids. Babies are gonna be babies — that’s life. So when your husband asks how your night was, don’t turn to your 14-month-old, point at him, and say, “THIS PRICK…”

It’s just not very nice.

Alone time saves lives

Me: *looks around, house is a mess, kids are loud* I. I don’t want to be here anymore.

T: Then go to the room and lie down.

Me: I’m not tired. I just don’t want to be here anymore.

T: Then go. I have the kids. Go take a drive.

Me: *makes me-shaped hole in door*

Terrorists kill people.

So.  Like.  Okay.

We just had all of the family come visit over the last two weeks, and while it was nice having people over and laughing and watching C freak out because people he didn’t know were looking at him, I AM SO GLAD IT IS OVER.  I have two kids (three if you count my husband), and trying to keep my house from looking like “there appears to have been a struggle” for two weeks straight is impossible.  I’d have better luck just lighting it on fire and roasting marshmallows in what used to be my bedroom.

In other news, my anxiety has shifted, and I’d like to thank Homeland for that.  Because, you know, when your husband is about to deploy, watching a show about terrorists killing all of the people is definitely the way to go.  Instead of being anxious about having to raise two kids solo, I’m now anxious about how I’m going to keep my husband alive from the other side of the world.  Dumb, I know.  I keep telling him to be brave — but don’t be an effing hero — but I won’t be there to make sure he follows through.

Other than that small hiccup, everything is okay.  Really.  And I wasn’t expecting that, because when you hear about spouses deploying, one of the shitty sides of it is the fighting over stupid crap increases exponentially.  Something about it being easier to handle them leaving if you’re mad?  I don’t know.  At any rate, our relationship is going suspiciously well.  No drama.  No arguing.  We are just a really well-oiled machine now.  Great time to leave, asshat.  (Computer didn’t autocorrect “asshat.”  Score.)

M wants me to get his dad an Army cake for when he leaves.  Excuse me while I go figure out what the hell that means.

I don’t even like barbecue.

So, it was really important to T that I meet his current workmates (and a spouse) so while he’s gone, I’ll know people or something.

LOL, okay.  We’ve been together for 12 years, but it’s like Memento and he’s brand spanking new every day.

After a lot of hemming and hawing (mostly on my part), I decided to bite the bullet and just go.  It would make him happy and I would get a semi-decent meal out of it.

We got to the restaurant (and I use that term loosely, as it was a down-home barbecue joint with a beer bottle chandelier) and did our pleasantries outside.  (You know, the fake, “Hello!  It’s so nice to meet you!”  No, it’s not.  Trust me.  You don’t know me.)  We went inside, ordered, and sat down.  It was mostly picnic table seating just to drive home the fact that you are in the middle of nowhere in the south and not some thriving metropolis, in case you forgot.  T scored a seat at a real life table with actual chairs, and I thanked God for him at that very moment, because what the hell do I look like trying to throw my fat leg over a bench?  No, thanks, I’d rather have a pap smear.

So, everyone was talking.  All small talk, which is what I was expecting, which is why I didn’t want to go.  I’m not a big fan of talking about the beautiful weather or how lame the installation is, but thanks anyway.  Inevitably, my being from New York came up, and I smiled and nodded.  (It’s such a novelty for some people — as if I’m from effing Mars — so I have learned to just smile and prepare for an onslaught of questions, chief of which, “How are you handling being in the south?!”  The same way I handle b.s. conversations — reminding myself to a.) breathe in and out, and b.) not stab anyone.)

And then… it happens.  The thing I was dreading.

“T said you were going to stay here while he’s deployed.  If you need anything, please call us.  If you are frustrated with the kids and need a break, just call.”

You and I and the galaxy know I’m not going to call you.  Come on.

You know why people say that?  To make themselves feel better.  They feel better knowing they put out into the universe that they are so there for me if I ever need it, and if something happens, they can say, “Well, I told her to call me if she needed anything,” and you can pass off any possible guilt you might feel because you tried.

That was a really long sentence.

You don’t care about me.  You don’t care about my kids.  Asking me for my number so we can be BFFs is a waste of your time and mine.  Who are we kidding here?  I’ll probably never see you again.  I’ll be too busy binge-watching crap TV while my kids are asleep to think about calling you.  And also?  No offense, but we both have better things to do, amiright?

So, we left and that was that.  I hope T feels better about leaving, because I feel exactly the same — overwhelmed by the fact that I have to do all of this family/home stuff by myself and somehow maintain my relationship with him from the other side of the world.  Yeah.  No big.

 

BRB OMW 2 CHURCH

Let me tell you something — you don’t know relief until you get your period after it being over a week late around a month before your husband deploys.  YOU.  DON’T.  KNOW.  RELIEF.  PUH-RAAAIISSEEE JAY-ZUSS FOR AUNT FLO.

I told T my period was late, but praise Baby Huey it came, and he was all like, “You could handle having a baby without me.  You’d only have to do it for a few months and then I would be back.”

Queue hysterics — both laughing and crying.

This coming from a man who has never taken care of a child while sick ever.  This coming from a man who has to do nothing but shoot his load and leave.  This coming from a man who will only have to worry about himself while he’s gone, while I’m expected to keep two children, and a dog alive.  Granted, I won’t be getting shot at, but frankly, he won’t be either. Hello, desk job, thank you very much.

Funny how short his memory is.  My postpartum depression was so bad with both my kids, if I had a baby while he was gone, I’m 99.999999% sure the kids, the dog, and I would wind up in a car at the bottom of the lake.

Must be nice to be a man with a wife who makes this all look so easy.

CABRÓN.  QUE SE JODA, PENDEJO.

Love you, T.  :*