Ok. Here is what I know–what I have my head wrapped around. What I strongly feel and believe.
- Threeish weeks isn’t so bad. It really isn’t.
- This could be a deployment. It’s not.
- A few weeks of separation right now in the light of the 14-16-18 months that so many families are dealing with is a ridiculous thing to be upset about.
- He could have been scheduled to be gone over Ingrid’s due date (and was for a time, and I was ready to tackle that, and would have cheerfully).
- Many women have survived extended absences of their husbands during their pregnancy and delivery and after and 3ish weeks of him missing mine at the end really isn’t a big deal.
- I could be going through some devastating illness, or be starving over in whatever country is starving right now, or be a refugee, or have no arms, legs, hair, armpits, or ability to smell.
- This could be so much worse.
- Yes it could.
- I know.
You see. I have perspective. I have all the perspective in the world. I get it. I do. I really, really do.
Here is what I also know:
- All the perspective in the world doesn’t make even a little hiccup like this not suck if only a little. It just doesn’t. Gone is still gone. Doing this alone is still doing it alone. Missing him is still missing him. Cushioning the blow of Little Miss missing him is still going to make me tear up and cry. It could be worse. Much, much worse. But quite frankly, I’ve done some of that worse, and I don’t think that the existence of ‘worse’ means that bad isn’t bad, even if bad is only for 3ish weeks.
Yes… Husband just took off for a brief jaunt to the arctic regions. And I’m ok with it. Really. But I still cried. I still miss him. I still feel like a good bit of the color of my life has been drained out for the next 3ish weeks.
I’m still 35.5 months er…. weeks pregnant which makes me tired, and achy, and hormonal anyway. Also, it’s hard to put on socks by myself.
I still have an active two year old to keep track of, who understands what is going on for probably the first time.
I’ve heard about all the “At leasts” I can muster when it comes to any of my husband’s trips. He could be gone for 3 years straight while I worked as part of a chain-gang and wandered life’s roads with open oozing sores on my feet and someone would have to throw an “at least” or two at me. I get tired of them. In fact, I think that “at least” should be stricken from the English language because when it’s used to ‘help someone see the sunny side of life’ it almost always succeeds only in making the person feel worse or at the very least guilty for not being ‘happy’ that it’s not a worse scenario.
In fact, I want it stricken from the language if only so that I won’t ever hear my mouth utter the words again. Because I know I’ve heard myself say them and wanted to hit myself over the head once they hit the air. The words should just be banished.
So…. This is my preemptive strike at the the at leasters of the world: No AT LEASTS for a couple of days, ok?
- At least it’s only 3ish weeks, that’s not so bad.
- At least he’ll (likely) be back for the birth
- At least he’s not in insert God-forsaken land of your choice here.
- At least you don’t have leprosy.
- At least you don’t live in the coldest regions of outer-mongolia (is it ever cold there?) and have nothing but a Kleenex box for shelter.
I’m 35.5 months…. er… weeks pregnant, and quite frankly, I think ANY woman in that condition has room to complain about whatever the heck she wants to. And I plan to…. until, you know, maybe tomorrow. And then I’ll get on with the countdown and stay busy with the toddler and sort clothes for Ingrid, and clean out the room that will be hers, and hang up cutesy wall-hangings in her room and Little Miss’s.
And then I will joyfully celebrate the return of dessert into my life and (yes, of course, more importantly!) Christ’s resurrection on Sunday.
And then I’ll just keep doing what I do until he gets back.
As for today, I’m about to go curl up on the couch with my recent retail therapy purchases–a new book, a new Celtic c.d, and a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch–until Little Miss gets up from her nap.
And that will make me feel better as long as no one tries to “at least” me.