It is Day 3 of Week 2 of Husband Being Gone Most of the Time. And this week, it’s really not so bad. Mainly because I know he’s in Arkansas, not Vegas.
The kids and I have settled into little routines. Marching band practice at the butt-ass crack of dawn for Cheyenne, Mia to school by 8:00, and a brisk walk around the neighborhood for Merrick and I at 9. Playtime, lunchtime, naptime, pick-up time, homework time, dinner time, bath time, book time and finally, bed time, sometimes followed by golf-course-running time for me…sometimes followed by shower time for me.
Cheyenne has her first football game tomorrow, AND in the course of no more than 4 days, she’s had her first boyfriend (the short kid she’s had a crush for years) and her first heartbreak. (He was only using her to make someone else jealous–ouch. Who does that little mutha fucka think he is?) I’m flipping out on the inside because she seems way too young to be ate up with all this drama. I casually suggested in a round-about way that she cool it with all the boy-girl stuff, to which she politely responded "Uggggg…Mo-oooommmm." But what do I know? I’m just the SCHMUCK WHO GOT PREGNANT WITH HER AT 15.
I get it. Backing off is no easy task for a paranoid parent such as myself. But, sometimes, in my mind, I wish she’d just listen to me. Okay, that’s not my only wish. I wish she’d listen, and agree. And learn. And do. In fact, if more people just came around to my way of thinking, my world, I’m convinced, would be a better place.
But how do I say, "Listen to me–I know what I’m talking about. Do you want to wind up pregnant at 15? No, you don’t. Trust me. I know. It works out terrible." Of course I don’t say that. Because it didn’t work out terrible, unless you think it’s terrible that I as a 29-year-old mother cannot effectively communicate with nor can I patiently put up with the hormones and emotions of a teenage girl. So in that light, yeah, it’s pretty terrible. Makes me want to stick my head in the oven. But…the good times outweigh the bad, by far.
I feel like I’m supposed to say that.
Mia and Merrick become more psycho every day. 1) I’m sure part of it’s because they miss Caleb. 2) I’m also pretty sure that Mia’s teachers give her crack at lunchtime, and 3) I’ve read books on how kids just turn straight-up crazy at the tender age of 15 months, so Merrick’s…I’m going to call it "energy"–is just a natural part of the growing process. That said, here’s an example of why I truly believe being stabbed in the brain with a knife can’t be more painful than the migraine I have by the end of the day, everyday:
MIA: (screaming bloody murder) "OOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW! OOOOOWWWW! OOOOWWWWW!"
ME: (running across the house to her room) "What?! What?! Are you okay?! Are you okay?!"
MIA: "Oh, yeah. I was just saying ‘c-OOOOOOWWW! c-OOOOWWW!’ "
ME: "You were saying ‘cow’? That’s what you were saying?"
MIA: "Moooom. That’s what I’m saying, that I said c-ow."
ME: "You…what? You…oh. Ug. The noodles are boiling over!"
Enter Merrick, I run to the kitchen, knock him down, he screams, dogs whine for their food, washing machine sounds like an airplane, something in the dishwasher clangs rhythmically, Moose A. Moose of "Noggin" fame sings an obnoxious song, boiling water and goo rushes off the stovetop onto the floor, Mia slips on the tile, she cries, dogs whine, Merrick screams…
Ach. You get my drift. I’ll stop now because I know I’m not the only one who lives the dream.
And I’m giving myself a headache.
But I do love my kids.
Seriously. I do.