But that is simply a fantasy. An unreality to get me through the worst of times, when not thinking about him doesn’t work. If I simply can’t put him being gone out of my mind, I pretend about him coming home. It’s nice, that pretending. But it’s nothing compared to the emotions that rear up inside of me when I find out he’s coming home.
There’s the obligatory excitement, the one that rushes from your brain to your heart to your stomach and back again in a warm gush of happiness. Then afterward there’s the panic that sets in as you start planning everything that you want to happen. You’re cleaning stuff that’s already clean and putting in order what’s been out of order since he left. For me, that happens for an hour maybe two, at least until the kids are in bed. Then later, when I’m watching TV (Netflix for days and Hercule Poirot Mysteries) it hits me.
I think, ‘Wow, he’s coming home!’ And it’s always sooner than I thought. I assume that the military is going to bungle things up and I’ll be disappointed if I focus on the original return date. Then it hits me. When he does come home, it won’t be that fantasy I’ve so lovingly created and faithfully expounded upon while he’s been away. It’ll be the same house and the same chaotic mess. The only difference is that Mike’s been thrown into the mix, ruining all our carefully (or not so carefully) structured schedules. He’ll be here in the evenings, when I’m taking in some much needed alone time. During dinner it’ll be him that’s got me cooking more than I’ve been used to for the last few months. At the end of the day he’ll add more laundry that I’ll have to wash. He’ll want input on important decisions and he’ll get onto the kids when they’re bad.
I’ll have to relinquish all the power I’ve had, all that total independence will have to be stifled and released in a measured flow. And all of that upset doesn’t even begin to put into perspective that while I’ve been back here, parenting on my own and enjoying the freedom of my house and these United States, he’s been miserable aboard a ship. Right now he’s in the middle of some ocean somewhere having his own version of the fantasy of what it’ll be like when he finally comes home. I’m sure we’re all sparkling and everything is beautiful. I’ll bet that in his version the kids are still amazingly well-behaved and the house cleans itself. I’m also the perfect, doting wife. I easily and miraculously make home cooked gourmet meals in a quarter of the time it takes in the real world. We’ll have hours and hours of free time where we’ll be able to do all the things he’s planned on doing since he’s been gone. He’ll play ball with Angelo in the yard and take Bella on Daddy-Daughter dates. He’ll take Charlie to the dog park and we’ll spend romantic evenings curled up on the couch our in our bed. We’ll go out to dinner with the amazingly awesome babysitter I can find on a moment’s notice.
It’s then that I remember that maybe both of us will have a little bit to adjust to when he comes home. We’ll have that bliss of the honeymoon phase for a little while and after that we’ll argue as we find our niche. It’ll be frustrating and it’ll be hard, but I’ll be happy to do it. Eventually I’ll learn to rely on him again, and we’ll remember how much we love the chaos of our lives. He’s my husband after all, the man I’ve chosen to share my life, my responsibilities, and my priorities with. He’s the one person on the planet I’ve entrusted my heart, my goals, my children, and my sanity. I love him and when it comes down to it, I’m happy. Despite all the upset and the time needed to fall back into each other the way we were before he left. I’m happy…because he’s finally coming home.
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