Just a little bit more to go . . . .
Ok, so I’m trying not to become too excited. I mean I’m a veteran Navy Wife, I know that they never come home on time. If they say they’ll be home on Thursday, they won’t be coming in until the following Monday. If they say they will be on the 2nd airlift, they’ll be on the 4th. You never make your welcome home dinner the day of homecoming, because knowing your luck you’ll be sitting in the hanger for 5 hours running after your children wearing heals making sure they do not damage any sensitive equipment, wishing you had a stiff drink (even though you don’t really drink very much) while your dinner is in the crock pot turning into some incinerated carbon alloy.
Alloy a la King doesn’t sound very appetizing.
It doesn’t matter that I’m counting down the days and hours of the time he may be coming home. It doesn’t matter that I’m already beginning to spit polish my house or actually clean out the van.
There is no way I’m telling the kids that he is coming home soon until the day of. I don’t want to have to deal with two little girls, giving me puppy dog eyes with alligator tears streaming out of them, screaming because I lied to them, not understanding that it’s not Mommy’s fault that Daddy’s not coming home when they said he would, not understanding that somewhere along the way some Airman put in the wrong coordinates for a satellite signal that was supposed to be sent to some base in the Aleutian Islands that was suppose to secure a missile silo in North Dakota and was accidentally sent to an allied base in Spain and NORAD wouldn’t allow access to CONUS airspace to the plane that was supposed to be carrying their Daddy back home because they could not verify that the plain carrying their Daddy was indeed friendly.
No way dude.
Yes, I’m going a little insane. It’s ok, everyone else around me is going insane too. This is normal. The hospital on base knows this as well and hands out Prozac like it candy to any dependant spouse coming in with frayed hair, wild eyes and a very noticeable tick in their cheek. If you begin to scream or laugh randomly they roll their eyes, put you on an IV and give you some Valium.
Yup, I’m normal.
Sarcasm is rolling off of my tongue like lead filled toys rolling off of an assembly plant in Southern China. I mean Ian has a mouth full of crayons (the washable kind of course) and dancing on the table at the same time, Mara is designing a mural on my dining room wall between wiping her nose with her sleeve (what she doesn’t know is that I have magic erasers for both the wall and her nose) and Emma is talking non-stop, whining every five minutes because I don’t know when Daddy will be home and I’m sitting here laughing my bum off at the computer because I have introspectively reflected on my current mental state.
Life is a riot isn’t it.
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