Motherhood Uncensored

Perspective

My husband was at work this past weekend for a four day trip back to his Guard unit, which usually causes me a fair amount of stress, anxiety, and overwhelm.

But thanks to the 45-day deployment, I didn't even bat an eyelash.

Yep, a super long stretch of parenting alone makes four days with the kids like a Hawaiian vacation.

Okay, so the only thing similar to four days alone with kids and a Hawaiian vacation was the fair amount of rum I consumed, made evident by the video I filmed earlier this week.

It's a combination of getting a few date nights with my husband, a few mornings a week to run errands alone and even take in a fitness class (I still have massive bruises people. Still.), and to get out with a friend to get a chance to hug a blog idol as she took a break from signing books for OVER SIX FREAKING HOURS to pee that's actually allowed me to enjoy the time alone with my kids.

Okay, that's a bit of a stretch.

I'm not sure if I'm blissful at the thought of parenting alone. I'm definitely a way better parent when I've got someone there to pick up the slack for me. And it would be freaking fantastic if Margot would sleep longer than 2-3 hours in a row at night.

(Sleep training, night weaning, and transition to actual crib and not a playpen in our walk-in closet to commence soonly).

(Cue "Coming out of a closet" jokes).

But I can actually almost appreciate the post-bath naked streaking through my house, heck, even an emptied sample bottle of baby oil that I only discovered because I discovered the trail of slick door knobs. And I didn't even think twice about taking them all food shopping at Super Target.

(Unofficial sponsors of my reasonably sane experience include massive amounts of free samples and Einstein Bagels).

So four days? Piece of cake.

Now the upcoming weekend with my in-laws visiting? Well that's a whole other story.

Daddy phone home

When my husband called me late Saturday afternoon to tell me he was leaving in a few hours, I did what every wife who's been without her husband would do.

I called a maid and I got an appointment to get my carpets taken care of this week.

Ahem.

Actually, I'd love to say that my husband would care about the shape of my personal carpet, but honestly, when you've been away from a vagina for a couple of months, you don't care so much how it's decorated.

But my living room rug? Damn straight he'd be worried about the state of that poor thing.

And so when I heard a knock on my door on Monday afternoon, the thought that perhaps it was my husband, the guy who looooooves to scare the shit out of me by coming home early from trips was at the door passed through my head.

Alas, it was a Hartford Life Insurance sales woman.

I was hoping that wasn't a sign of something.

But then a few minutes later, I heard the lock being rattled and in he walked. 

It didn't matter that the house was a mess, or that the carpets (yes, both of them) were untreated, or that there was no welcome home banner or meal or thong.

Just my extra made-up CNN face. And a few ridiculously excited children.

He's still getting over jet lag and "holy shit Margot's a toddler now" lag.

But when he commented how dirty the toilets were after being home for only a few hours, I knew everything was going to be just fine.

Oh honey, how we missed you. Welcome home.

The Countdown Begins

There is a distinct possibility that my husband will be state side on November 15.

But I do not discuss these things lest his deployment is extended.

And because the next 15 days could seem longer than the whole month and half that he's been gone. 

My mom arrived on Friday and since then, I have not cooked or cleaned or bathed my children.

It is magical.

I also ran a half-marathon.

So now I have a real excuse for why I'm not cooking or cleaning or bathing my children.

I can't walk.

I know. There are like 4000 other things I could do to pimp out my book other than run 13.1 miles.

Speaking of which, I reluctantly decided to show my mom the book, to which she responded "huh" and then flipped directly to the Good Girls Have Pubes page, and well, let's just say she won't be pre-ordering 50 copies and handing them out to her friends or bringing them all to the Philly stop of my still in the works near brain aneurysm inducing because I am my own publicist book tour.

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And she probably won't be going to church in a Mominatrix shirt. Or hell, even sleeping in one.

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But it doesn't matter to me. Well, it does a little. We all want our moms to tell us we're awesome and that they're so proud of us. And not through your friends who tell you "Oh she is proud of you, she just doesn't have the means of expressing it to you."

Meh.

Regardless of how she feels about the book, the fact that I'm enjoying a little break from primary parenting over these next few days is completely worth it.

I miss my daddy

"She's crying because she misses her daddy," he said, as I strapped Margot into her carseat while she screamed and thrashed like I was trying to hog tie her.

"You're probably right, Drew," I replied. "Sometimes I cry when I miss Daddy. Do you miss him too?"

"Yes I do. I do miss my daddy."

*****

Drew has been the only one to verbally express his feelings about the physical absence of my husband. Every now and then, without predictability or an easily determined trigger, he'll tell me that he misses him. 

Quinlan has been less verbal, the strain of being the oldest in a one parent household made obvious in her more that usual outbursts. Her frustration and over 15 minute long fit over a ripped paper on her homework assignment is completely uncharacteristic. And yet, I don't fault her.

We're all on edge. We all miss him, in our own way.

*****

The more my kids need my attention, the less I feel I have to give - stretched between doing work and keeping up with the house, both of which I actually enjoy because it passes the time. The burden is lightened by neighbors taking my oldest two for playdates and bringing me meals twice a week.

My upcoming half-marathon training (HOLY SHIT!) is keeping me in a pretty steady routine, and the book (THE BOOK!) is an equally exciting and frightening distraction, with unedited copies in the hands of real people, some of whom are not my friends and don't actually have to like it.

Heh.

I've also taken to putting together weekly care packages for him, a task I relish because I don't even bother worrying about prices or coupons or whether that organic beef jerky is on sale.

I figure it's a small price to pay.

Last week I created a short Power Point presentation with pictures and a few words for the kids to watch as a way to stay somewhat connected to him.

And let's be honest. It makes a fantastic bedtime story replacement. One less thing to do before bedtime is like winning the golden ticket on some nights.

Plus maybe if they see him every night, it'll make the pangs of missing him, however they manifest themselves on a daily basis, a little less painful. For all of us.

Daddy's Tour of Duty Slideshow by Cool Mom Picks

View more presentations from Kristen Chase.

[I created this slide show as part of an advertising campaign on Cool Mom Picks. I was not asked or required to post it here on this blog, but since this blog has now become DDB (Depressing Deployment Blog) I figured it was appropriate].

Survival skills

My husband caught me on IM a few nights ago, which would generally be super awesome except the man can't type for shit. 

God knows how he made it through four years of college typing with two fingers. Granted, he's pretty damn accurate, but when you're typing about as fast as my 5-year-old daughter, you damn sure should not be making any mistakes.

They put them through gun training, and every other survival skill, but how about teaching them how to type quickly so they can communicate (and hell, even get it on [audio link]) with their spouses in more than grunts and emoticons.

What about relationship survival skills?

I started chattering on about my day, and then waited anxiously for his reply only to get "huh?"

It took him that long to write four freaking characters?

We're doomed.

I've come to learn that if he had a few hours to type out a few sentences, he probably would respond to my page long emails, but unfortunately for me, he's a faster reader than he is a typer.

In fact, he's so bad that he spelled Margot's name wrong in his last email.

Thankfully, the almost daily 15-minute phone calls make up for what he lacks in keyboard skills. We all clamor to the phone, the kids fighting over who gets to talk to him first. I try to give him a rundown of what's going on without tearing up. And the kids have adapted to conversations over a satellite phone; they speak loudly and clearly, holding the phone as close to their ear - so much so that they often inadvertently hang up on him, leaving me to deal with the devastated child who ended our lifeline to him before the time was actually up.

At my prompting, Quinlan is keeping a daily journal for him, with one sentence and a corresponding drawing that communicates the highlight of each day. It's fascinating to see what a five year old deems as important to tell her dad.

Apparently it's not that far from what a 33-year-old thinks is important.

I smell a blogger in the making.

[Unrelated PSA: If you happen to be a blogger in Phoenix or Las Vegas (or know one), please email me motherhooduncensored[at]yahoo[dot]com]