My husband’s been away for a week and I want to go ahead say this out loud: I hope he never decides to cheat on me or die, because I will never leave him. It’s not necessarily the work of having the kids all week without him; I tag out with my dad in the evenings. It’s more the loneliness. The absence of another person in the room when something incredibly cute happens, or when I think if I have to answer one more question before I have my coffee I might just throw myself through a window. There’s been no “ask Daddy” or “go watch the simpsons with Daddy” or “holy shit why are they doing this to us” kind of commiseration.

I’m an introvert for the most part, which makes it hard to have children anyway but also hinders me when it comes to building that kind of mother’s community that we see in the commercials for Mommy Yoga and Girl’s Night Out. The fact is that my husband is my best friend, and I’d rather be with him than just about anybody, even though the women in my life who are close to me are all perfectly laid back and exceedingly easy to be around.

I confess that part of my high level of comfort with Michael is related to how infrequently I feel the need to wear a bra, or clothes really, in his presence. And let’s face it: after nine years together, it’s a rare day that doesn’t find my husband gazing at me in amazement after a particularly amplified burp, and on more than one occasion I’ve run him from the room with delightful bodily functions from south of the border. So it’s understandable really, isn’t it? It’s just so EASY to be married! It’s so easy to slip into that complacent frame of mind where life is all ratty underwear and farts at the dinner table, no?

Lately thought I’ve been venturing out, have had conversations with women I barely know and have found them tolerable, and have entertained the idea of building a social circle again.

What worries me is this: now that I’m feeling better, less reclusive and more able to tolerate the company of other humans, what if I make a slip of judgment one night and let out a huge fart during a girls’ night out movie party?

Last week the heavens moved, a beam of light shone down upon my daughter, and for the first time in …..ever, she had no restrictions and a reasonable curfew. I thought I was very clever, setting the curfew at 11 even though Michael fought tooth and nail to get it to 10. My flawless logic and thorough understanding of my child, though, knew that setting it at 11 with an hour penalty for breaking curfew would net us out goal of a 10 pm curfew.

So then she goes a whole week never breaking stride or curfew. All the sudden she grows up like 10 years. She’s offering to babysit, she’s getting up early, she’s doing her chores without complaint (my flawless plan includes a contingency clause related to yelling and chores) and generally proving my point that you have to show them what they will be missing in order to get them to care about losing it. This kid has been grounded about 80% of her life since the unfortunate incident with the rifle and the boyfriend and she really has no idea what life is like for a 15 1/2 year old. I decided it was time to give her a taste of that, and lo and behold, one behavior contract (I am not allowed to throw things anymore) and four soul sucking therapy sessions later, my daughter emerged!

Last night was night one of where-the-hell-is-she-I’m-going-to-kill-her. Here’s what’s different: this time, she was allowed to make a mistake, take the hit on the curfew for two nights, and gain the time back if she keeps the 10 pm. No grounding, no lectures, no interrogations. (Word to the wise: interrogation a) doesn’t work and b) when it does, nets information you really do not want inside your head and c) makes your kids think you’re an asshole.)

A few things I learned last night:
–I need a GPS phone for this child
–It’s OK to go ahead and sleep, set the alarm to “chime” and wake up for the lecture conversation. (will need to practice this hopefully never, but it’s in the arsenal)
–Their drama is just as real to them as ours was for us. It’s not appropriate to snicker, roll eyes, or sigh loudly while listening to a detailed recreation of said drama.
–Also inappropriate: relating to their story with a much more dramatic and sometimes incriminating one of your own
–Sometimes the best question is the one you don’t ask

So there you have it: 6 nights without breaking the new curfew, no yelling, no broken TVs, no eternal restriction. I’m calling it a win.

Holy dead external backup drive. I’m sick to my stomach, so instead I’m thinking about Father’s day, and how my friend and I used to bitch together about people who made a special deal out of our husbands caring for their children. You know how they do: “Oh! You’ve got the kids today eh? Babysitting?’” Um no. Raising my kids, thanks. Or, my personal favorite “Oh my! You’ve got your hands full since your wife is traveling/sick/in the shower/at the store. Let us know if you need any help! We’re here for you!”

Oh, thanks. Those sentiments say two things to me: 1) it’s fine for the mother to do this job 24 hours a day all year whether solo, sick, busy, pissy, or just disenfranchised and 2) The world at large perceives my husband as a bumbling idiot who spends so little time with his children in ‘real life’ that when confronted with a long stretch alone with them, he will flounder, destroy their lives, and possibly starve them to death.

We don’t live in those times anymore, folks. These are the days of Daddy and Me music classes and contractual distribution of household chores. In our house there’s no such thing as “downtime” after work. My husband walks in the door and clocks in. Often we pass in the doorway as I exclaim “They’re your kids now! I’m moving away!” on my way to Target which is the nearest retail therapy/purge the day outlet.

We don’t really celebrate Father’s Day around here, and not so much Mother’s Day either. Every day is both. There will be hot breakfast, a rare occurrence on my shifts, and possibly a mid afternoon nap.
Other than that, today is like all the other days. My dad is taking my kids to fast food breakfast like every weekend, snorting defiantly when I grouse about how as a child he wouldn’t even allow refined sugar or artificial coloring into my diet, rolling his eyes when I come behind him to check their seat belts. Michael and I will sit quietly together on separate computers, maybe IM each other on facebook a few times, doing our best to ignore the tell tale signs of summer vacation: piles of laundry and CPS-worthy housekeeping. I kid. Those are actually tell tale signs that you’re in our house, any day of the year.

Every day is Fathers Day. Say it with me. Let’s put the card industry out of business.

Holy humidity. Yesterday we took a short walk with the kids down the greenway, a new “hiking” trail in Fernandina. Florida hiking is, as you may have guessed, very different from desert mountain hiking. I’ve been climbing- well, up mountains, or down into canyons, or up mountains and then down into canyons, using scrub and rocks to pull myself up the steeper sections, hoisting myself up onto rock outcroppings to snap photos of my route up. So when I saw the tire ruts and the completely flat expanse of trail on the Greenway, I was a little disappointed. The hike did get a little harder once I had to start carrying Jack.

But it was the humidity that killed me. I wasn’t kidding when I told someone recently that there are some months in the summer here where we just don’t go outside. I love my garden, but once the heat of the summer hits I abandon it faster than a bad diet. I came home from New Mexico energized from seven days of hiking morning and afternoon though and declared that as a family, we’ll start hiking the local trails. I neglected to consider several things: bugs, humidity, and the pace of children.

Still, we had fun:

I’ve been walking in the desert every morning. It’s silly to be here, and confine myself to her house, the ICU, and one stretch of commercial road when I can drive 2 miles out of my way and hike for hours into a different world.

Because of those walks, and therapy, and my extremely low expectations for this trip I feel much different- less anxious, less angry- just less everything. The world slows down for me out there. I wish I could spend entire days on the trails and never walk into the ICU to hold my mother’s hand while she screams for her own mother.

tomorrow night I’m going to White Sands, and what I hope is that the universe will tell me something profound while I’m out there.

A half-line from a John Prine song is stuck in my head. “A hard way to go” replays about 400 times an hour, John Prine and Bonnie Raitt singing live. Looking at my mother in that bed, doing so much better than even four days ago but with still so much touch and go ahead of her, I think about the loss of dignity, the torture of 46 days in a hospital bed and 60+ left to go, and I think if she doesn’t pull through this, what a hard, hard way to go. I don’t understand this level of suffering and why- just why. Why so much suffering.

Round two of ICU party time, commence! I’m headed back to New Mexico to be the Family in the room while my mother has another surgery, now 6 weeks after the last one from which she has not healed.

I’m super sad that my children were horrible demon spawn all day long instead of cuddling quietly with me on the couch while I spent the entire day on the phone shuffling between my mother, her friend, my sister, the nurses, the surgeon, and our emergency child care faction. Phone calls, in case you were not aware, can really suck the life out of a day.

—finishing this entry on the fly- out the door to the airport in 10. I”m bright eyed and bushy tailed this a.m., pre-air jitters keeping me awake and alert. I’m calling it alert and not anxious. My goal for this whole trip is to avoid tranquilizers. wish me luck.

Surgery this afternoon. Onward!