Trying to explain my husband's work schedule is pretty complicated. Neighbors see him taking the kids to the pool and heading off to play golf and think we live the cushy life.
And yes, being on call all month long does have its benefits. When they don't call you.
Aside from around seven days where the company absolutely cannot call him, he's at their whim, which makes for one hell of a time trying to schedule anything, RSVP to any parties, or plan any major outings.
He can try to bid off for certain days, like BlogHer weekend, which by some miracle, he actually got off. He's low on the totem pole, like many of the flight attendants on his trips like to point out (hazing much?), and so getting what you ask for is like an act of God.
So we spend many of our days living by the seat of our pants. You'd think that by now we'd be used to it, and in many ways I've adjusted. I end up missing out a lot of things and I'm always the "maybe" RSVPer - if that's even an option.
But every time they call him from a "short call" - basically when he gets two hours to get his ass to the airport - it's like a tornado hits the house.
He's at least learned to put his passport back in his flight bag, and he stores his work ID in a special place so he doesn't forget that. It only took driving away a good four times over the last year without either of them for him to figure that out.
But he almost never leaves a bag packed. He often doesn't have either a pressed shirt or pants. And the trail of clothes, towels, and other crap he leaves so he can rush out the door drives me a little insane. It's like a tornado passes through our house, with the kids secured in the basement, and me left to deal with the aftermath.
Which this time meant I could not find my keys. Because he was the last one to use them to let us all in the house (so I know they're in here) and lord knows where he put them.
I looked in all the obvious man places, like his pants, the laundry room, and the bathroom.
I even looked in all the smart contraptions like the leather box by the phone or the fancy hook by the door that he always uses and then chides me for not. I looked in toy boxes and the kids' rooms, but I'm pretty sure they never even got a chance to get their grubby hands on them.
Maybe they're whooping it up with the rolling pin.
But alas, he's in Brazil. And I'm stuck with no keys and three rammy kids with nowhere to go.
Care to wager a guess as to where they are?