Michael left this morning for Washington DC. He’ll be gone a week. He and two of the partners of his firm are appearing before the US Supreme Court next Tuesday to argue a case. Pretty exciting stuff. Most attorneys never have an opportunity like this, so I’m thrilled for him.
That said, I won’t lie and say that there hasn’t been some dread on my part for his going away and my being left here to deal single-handedly. Oh, I’ve done it before – like those times he was in the hospital, and even times he’s gone out of town for this or that for a few days at a time. And although I’ve done it with six kids before, I’ve never done it with six kids and another baking in the oven and sucking the life out of me.
The daytime isn’t bad. Michael’s gone at work during the day anyway, so no difference there. But when the Witching Hour hits – which is approximately 38 seconds after the last bell at school rings, and which lasts until bedtime – that’s when things get hairy. And being faced with no prospective second pair of hands and co-wrangler to corral these little maniacs by dinnertime, I’m ready to lock myself in the bathroom with a bottle of vodka. (I didn’t actually do it, of course, I just fantasized about doing it.)
So we get homework done, dinner eaten, dishes cleaned up, and Michael calls. DaddySaviorHeroGod. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” They’re all clamoring to talk to him because it’s been eleven whole hours since they saw him or talked to him. Me? I’m chopped liver. I just blend in with the woodwork around here. Even though I’m the one here slaving away for the little
There is a lesson to be had here, and it is this: Mommy needs to go away for a week so she, too, can be missed and appreciated.