Rain Rain

 
Enter Day 100 of my husband being gone (or Day 5–whatever). It’s raining. People in this town are sick left and right and I’m pretty sure I’m about to come down with Ebola. Telltale sign? My neck hurts. And I’m tired. I’m convinced that someone came into my house in the middle of the night, dumped out my coffee and replaced it with decaf. That same person may have also eaten all of our chocolate-chip granola bars.
 
To perk ourselves up, Mia and I had a makeover party involving scissors, My Little Ponies, and one unfortunate knock-off Barbie doll. As a mom, I knew it was wrong…but, as a mom, I do what I want. And I wanted to mohawk some ponies.
 
Mia really enjoyed it.
 
I think it’s safe to say that Cheyenne’s "emo" days are officially over. They lasted all of half a week. She tried, though. She wore everything black and dreary that she owned: 1 black t-shirt and a pair of black leggings with white polka dots. She made the most perfectly accessorized emo, and her hair never went without a straightener. It took her 3, maybe 4 days, before she admitted defeat and resigned herself to being…herself.
 
Merrick’s as nuts as ever. An interesting development: he grabs his diaper and grunts at me whenever he’s wet or dirty. I can’t remember if the girls did this at his age. And I don’t care. I’m not potty-training him until after he turns 2. Come to think of it, I’m not potty-training him at all. I think I’ll leave this one up to Caleb. It’s his turn.
 
I’ve been doing a little painting and drawing at night since there’s no one to snuggle up with and put my ice-cold feet on. I’ve been only slightly depressed without my husband but have been able to keep myself from really sinking until today. And now I will go into an elaborate explanation:
 
Every morning I drive Mia to school down a country road past mostly fields full of cows and sunflowers. It’s nice. She sings at the top her of lungs to the "Tinkerbell" soundtrack and Merrick listens to her and contentedly crams his entire morning banana into his face. I drive and look out the window, and about halfway down our route, there’s this house right off the road. Next to the house there’s a brown metal building with an inviting front porch, and in that little building there’s an old man, piddling away at his work bench, every morning at 8:00. I can’t help but look through the windows of his workshop, all lit up with flourescent lighting, tools and ladders hanging on the walls, wooden work-benches, different kinds of saws everywhere–the door is always open, and a big fat old yellow lab lays right outside on the front porch, and it looks like the warmest, coziest place to be in the whole world. I can just smell the sawdust and I can picture coffee steaming hot in a mug that says "World’s Best Grandpa" sitting there on one of the work-benches, and the old man talks in a soothing voice to his old dog named Jimbo, and I wish I could pull the car over, go sit on a stool in that workshop and watch the old man while he makes a birdhouse, because he’s an avid birdwatcher and he’s hoping a family of cardinals will move in once he hangs the thing on a tree branch by the kitchen window. Coincidentally my favorite bird is a cardinal, so we talk about cardinals and he pours me some coffee and my kids pull the dog’s ears and we laugh and he tells me about the gold old days and I get to wear safety goggles.
 
But I digress.
 
Today, rain was pouring and the Tinkerbell CD was skipping. I was out of bananas and the kids weren’t happy. Caleb’s been gone for 5 days and Cheyenne hates me because I wouldn’t let her stay after school to "practice her flute" (which I’m thinking is code for "hang out with boyfriend who is also in band"). Normally, I could’ve handled all of that (or not…), but today, the workshop was closed-up and dark. No old man, no dog…no coffee. And because of that, the gloomiest day of the week got gloomier.
 
If that metal building is not lit up tomorrow, I’m knocking on that door and I’m telling that old man to get his butt to work. I’m telling him there are people counting on him. And then I’m asking him if he’ll brew some caffeinated coffee.
 
That is all.
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About Toni

Mom. Wife. Artist. I take care of the kids and pretend to clean sometimes. I can cook spagetti and I have never been arrested. View all posts by Toni

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