So after a weekend of my husband being out-of-town, he came home to a disaster area. I know he was pissed, but dang, he left me home alone with all the kids again. And two of them were throwing up in the middle of the night. I can handle broken bones, bloody foreheads, stinky dirty boys, but I just don’t do vomit. I changed 99.6% of the diapers, I have done every single parent-teacher conference, and I have handled every single “I don’t wanna do my homework” tantrum, so don’t look down on me when I need reinforcements every time somebody throws up.
You know, I get it that it’s not always easy living in a house full of kids. I’m probably not always sexy when I’m folding socks for the umpteenth time. But I miss the way he used to rush home to me. I miss the way he used to leave me little notes, yeah, those days before cell phones, when car phones were still those big crazy things in a leather bag that we could never afford.
I remember once he was on the night shift and I was on the day shift and “Jerry McGuire” came out on video, and before he went to bed for the day, he rushed to the video store to be the first one to rent it, and when he left for work, he left me a note that he had been thinking of me. This boy had me at hello, so things like that were always a bonus.
But like I always say, our life has always been a roller coaster. We fell in love at first sight, moved in together within a week, and then a few months later I found out he wasn’t quite divorced. Of course, his marriage was truly over, the divorce was filed for, but I thought he was divorced, so imagine my surprise when one morning he didn’t leave for work because he had court that day. That’s the moment that I realized why people kept calling me a rebound. Of course, I was right, I wasn’t a rebound, but he could have prepared me a little bit with a simple “hey, I’m not really divorced just yet…”
So the boyfriend asked me “how did you end up with that guy?” and on one hand I’m shaking my head saying “I don’t have a clue” and on the other hand I’m surrounded by the Jerry McGuire moments that made me love this man. Our home is full of the trinkets that built our life. The hurricane glass from the dinner we had at the spinning restaurant for our honey moon on the River Walk, the bear he bought when I was in the hospital, struggling to have our first son, the red vase I had to have at an over-priced garage sale, the antique coke machine he snuck in one Christmas to surprise me, these are the reminders of the moments when I knew his heart was beating for me.
They distract me from the other memories, the time I caught him in a bar with his hands buried in some girl’s hair, telling her how beautiful she was. Or the time he decided to test his love for me. I could go on, but what’s the point?
There’s this wonderful man who hides inside of him, who loves me intensely, who takes care of our family, who helps everyone in need, but I just wish I saw him more instead of this Jackass who dared to walk into a house, after a carefree weekend, and say “what’d you do all day?” As if I’ve accomplished nothing, when I’ve spent all my accomplishments right here making his house the best home I can offer, and again, I find myself missing the man who says “if I were there, I’d roll up my sleeves and give you a hand!”
What’s a girl to do? I’m tired of scrubbing vomit alone, and not even a thank you when he comes home!