Bonus Tuesday: Home is where the heart is

Trisha's Note: Because I enjoy writing but am also easily sidetracked, I have a lot of unfinished posts just wallowing around in sad incompletion on my Blogger dash. I've decided to finish them because A) I like a challenge and 2) I really don't want to deal with my children just now.

So that's what Bonus Tuesday is all about: a bonus post, written who knows when and about who knows what, that may or may not really deserve the light of day. (You're totally sold on the concept, aren't you?) Actually, this is one I originally dismissed as being too pathetic. And yet, I march on.

Wyoming, early November.

Could there be any cliche more cliche than home is where the heart is? I kind of doubt it. I mean, they embroider that shit onto pillows, for crying out loud. You can't tell me that's not a red flag.

Imagine my chagrin, then, when that phrase kept racing through my mind all during the first week of November. Home is where the heart is, home is where the heart is, home is where the heart is. It got very old.

Because my heart was in Wyoming, hunting defenseless forest creatures.

Let's just get this out there right now: I am a homebody. I like routine and I like tradition. (That's probably why I make such a great Catholic.) I do not like surprises. I do not like trying new things. When something happens that is not what I had originally expected, it takes me an embarrassingly long time to regroup.

Which makes things hard for me sometimes, frankly, because life is not static. When Eric goes away on his yearly hunting trip, which generally last from a week to 10 days, it throws me way off.

On the surface, I am fine with him leaving. Actually, deeper than the surface, even. He goes with his dad and his brothers, and they have a great time together. It's good for him to have that time.

But deep down? Hate hate hate it.

I try really hard not to punish him for going. I used to, I won't lie, because I was so pissed at being left and I was trying to make him feel as badly as I felt. (Um, no, it didn't work, but thanks for asking.) So now, I make it a point to just let him go.

(What's interesting about all of this is that, even though I try so hard on so many levels, I still slip into anxiety mode. The closer he gets to leaving, the more anxiety I feel. By the time he leaves, it's just all anxiety all the time, which is about as much fun as you'd expect.)

I try to make the week as fun as possible for the girls and myself when he's gone. We joke that we are lawless in the house with no adult supervision, and who knows what might happen? We can have ice cream for dinner if we want. SO THERE.

What made it slightly better this year is that we now have cell phones that don't suck, so Eric was able to call and text frequently. I appreciated that. Being able to talk to him made my day seem a little more normal. And having a job also helps. I had too many other things to think about to allow much time for wallowing.

I'm not really sure what the point of this is. That I miss my husband when he leaves me? That I suck at being alone? That my need for normalcy is intrinsic and not... I don't know, a lifestyle choice? That I am not a modern woman? That I need to up my meds? I don't know. Maybe all of the above.

The end.