Going Batty

When my husband leaves for a fourteen-day hitch, which is what the oilfield workers call their days at work on location, which means at the oil site, which means in the middle of nowheresville…the kids kiss him goodbye like he is off to the wild jungles of Africa.  There are intense tears and theatrical displays, “When will you come BACK, daddy?” 

I am looking at them through a clenched smile, like, “Whatever…you just wanna know how long you have before the Law rides back into town…you little heathen.” 

I always stand very straight and kiss my husband with rigid lips, acting all mother-putting-her-kindergartner-on-the-bus-for-the-first-time, “Now, you get going – you’re going to be late.” 

Actually, I try to conjure up my inner Mrs. Oleson…you know, the storekeeper from Little House on the Prairie.  No, not the sweet mom…that would be Mrs. Ingalls, and no man wants to leave a Mrs. Ingalls.  You gotta be Mrs. Oleson if they are going to drive away sturdy and strong and free from worry.  If you are Mrs. Ingalls, they just wanna hop back in bed; they want you to make another pot of stew…while that one little wisp of sun-kissed hair hangs down, and it gets in your mouth every once in a while, and Pa comes over and says, “Wait a minute,” and he gingerly pushes it back, and you have that little “Aw…I love marriage…” moment. 

I mean – who is leaving THAT?

When my husband is heading out the door for a hitch, I am the prude with the tight brown bun…got it?  Okay.  So, yes, that is me, at the door, with a broom, acting aloof and unaffected…supportive, but noticeably annoyed by the amount of cat hair on my welcome mat.  What man doesn't wanna hop in a truck and leave that lizard standing on the stoop?

OK, good.  He drives away.

Then, I shut the door, and I kinda lean up against it on the inside, and I stare straight through the house.  Pink Floyd plays in my head.  My kids scatter; they are thinking, “Awesomeness…no dad.  Mom’s easy.”  My children do not see my inner Mrs. Oleson.  I am not sure what my kids see, but whatever it is, it rolls its eyes a LOT, and it is often in a huff, bellowing stuff like, “Who DOES stuff like this?” and “Can no one HEAR me?”  and “Why is this HERE?”

Oh my gosh – maybe they see nothing? 

As soon as my husband is down the street, I put down my broom (I mean, what am I supposed to do with a broom anyways…I don’t even know why I put that in this reflection.  A broom.  Yeah…good luck with that.  Try leaf blower.).  Whatever it is – I put it down because I am not going to be using it. 

For two days after my husband leaves, I go into a stupor.  No, I am not depressed…not intoxicated…I am transitioning into single parenting.  This is not something you jump into impulsively.  You have to walk slowly into it, like you are walking into a scary scary dark cave, where bats are hanging upside-down, and they will fly down and try to nest in your hair…or your Mrs. Oleson bun…and you will spin around in circles batting at the…bats (a little alliteration there…oh, and “a little alliteration” is a little more alliteration…I will drink MORE coffee). 

Anyway, put down the coffee - you are being attacked by bats, people!

So, you don’t want to go running in there.  That would just be stupid.  Anything could happen to you.

You walk very slowly.  Thinking, “I HAVE to go in there,” because, like…you do.  You are in charge of the bats. 

For two days, I tread little by little into the cave.  I am alone now.  I have to sharpen my senses.  I rearrange the way I think. 

For instance, I do not think, “HE will see what that noise is.”  And I don’t think, “HE will clean that up.”  And I don’t think, “HE will give Shirtless the evil eye and stop Shirtless dead in his nasty little bat tracks.”

Actually, that is incorrect.  I DO think those thoughts; I do wait for HE to do stuff, but then, an alarm goes off in my head, and that alarm yells,

“HE is not HERE, moron!”

Oh.  It is a crushing two days, filled with stepping-up, filled with overcoming sloth, filled with curse words in my head and ducking and swatting and hiding. It is shocking…a shock to the senses.

And then I am well inside the cave.

I get used to it.  I put my hands down from in front of my face, where they have been, palms out…batting…or at first glance waiting to catch a football….

And, I even let my hair down out of that tight bun because now I have that headache you get when your hair has been pulled back for too long.  

And, I plop down on the floor, surrounded by bat droppings, and I realize I am not in a cave at all.  I am in my living room, and those aren't bats or bat droppings.  Those are my children and Cocoa Puffs.

The children, all hopped up on Cocoa Puffs, do make high pitched piercing noises that only bats and I can hear,

but they are children…only children…my children, and I can do this. 

I can do it alone even, not neatly, not perfectly, but I can do it in big fell swoops of bravery.

For starters, I can go find the leaf blower.