I love my husband. He's funny, completely trustworthy, and after almost ten years together I still look at him across a room and think: "Hey, that guy is handsome." But when he pulled away in his car last Thursday for a weekend trip, I danced a jig. See, he's also neater and more organized than I am, and living with him can make me feel alternately like a rebellious teenager or an inept homemaker. Sometimes I just want to kick back, pop some corn, and troll Facebook for ex-boyfriends, instead of cleaning crushed Cheerios out of my car and planning fun, wholesome activities for my older son so he doesn't have the time or energy to teach his 2-year-old brother how to Google "boobies."
My husband Tod's excursion wasn't for fun. He had to go to Indiana for the funeral of an aunt. No big deal -- a family reunion for him, a mini stay-cay for me. Yet the night before Tod left, as he was folding his funeral suit like an origami master, it dawned on me that I had never been alone in our house with the two children overnight before. Sure I had taken them away where it was just the three of us, so it wasn't like I'd never been alone with them, but I'd never been a single parent in our home, responsible for maintaining our day-to-day life without my better half (in my case, not a figure of speech). I'm a lot of fun and I give great hugs, but affection doesn't get kids to school on time, or teeth brushed and lights out by 8. These are Daddy's duties.
On the morning of his flight, however, my anxiety departed. When I kissed Tod goodbye in our driveway, my toes began tapping with excitement. I mean, how much could I possibly screw up my kids in one weekend?