I haven’t finished the basement. I haven’t organized the playroom. I haven’t finished the refi. It feels like I haven’t done anything.
It feels like all I’ve done is laundry and dishes and grocery shopping. Over and over. And over.
But I have hugged the kids. Over and over. And over.
And other things.
I’m horribly insecure about my failings and yet entrenched in what may be my own stupidity. I’m really dialed in to the well-worn track of my own complicated routine. I’m not ready for him to come here and retrace my steps and attempt to create efficiency out of chaos. I don’t want him to put me on an alternate track, even if it’s better. I don’t want him to tell me I’ve done it wrong while he’s been gone. Even if I have done it wrong. I’m not ready for that.
And I’ve developed bad habits, some he won’t tolerate well. I turn the TV on too loud to drown out the silence, sometimes. I spend too much time on the computer, sometimes. I escape from the kids by disappearing in the bathroom, sometimes. I drink wine with dinner too often. I kick and flip and toss and don’t sleep. I feel antisocial on Fridays at the end of the workweek. I use too much ketchup on the turkey burgers that I keep making even though I’m the only one that likes them. And I’m stupidly late, all the time. Too late. Too often.
And other things.
I’m ready to look up past his chin toward his clear blue eyes and know that he remembers the real me. But I’ve changed a little too much for him to find me. I’m ready for him to get off the airplane, hold me in his arms tight, and promise me he’ll never leave for that long again. But he won’t be able to make the promises I want. I’m ready for him to sweep me off my feet and tell me we will live happily ever after. But happily ever after is a lot more work than that.
I’m not ready. Not today.