my husband is in India

Aside from the severe jealousy I’m feeling that he gets to be the world traveler before I do, I’m also becoming acutely aware of how his generally quiet, unassuming presence in the house is so much more than that.

He’s been gone two days, and in that two days, the household is slowly, but surely, descending into chaos. The remote control for the TV has deprogrammed itself. One set (the good set) of my car keys are missing, and I’m left with the set with the ineffectual fob. I had to edge the grass for Big J’s weekly grass-cutting gig (normally Brian’s job), and my arms are still sore and shaky from the stupid weed whacker. Plus I think I broke the damn thing, AND the edging job I executed is so bad (bald spot, long grass, dirt spot, bald spot, etc.) that I’m afraid Big J’s clients might fire him. I’ve been eating cheese and peaches for dinner; the kids, Ramen — no one else cares enough to actually have a real meal. H decided she wanted to rearrange her room, and we managed to crack one of the legs on her armoire trying to move it (it weighs about a million pounds — damn Ikea furniture!!).

Also, I’m to get my wisdom teeth out on Friday, before he returns. I’m trying desperately to finish all my course prep before then, so I can have a week of non-productivity before classes begin at the end of August.

So, absence indeed shows the heart, the family, the life, what it’s missing. We miss the voice of reason, the brawn, the need for steak and potatoes.



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