I don’t mind understating things.
Which is why I’ll mention that my weekend away did me good. It did my kids good to hang with dad, though a certain four year old has just told me for the 35th time today that he lubs me. I lub him, too. And from the unshowered, haggard, bags-under-the-eyes look my husband greeted me with on Sunday, I could tell my time away had done him good, too.
Call it a phase, an inconvenience, something he’ll grow out of…or, uh, nothing at all…whatever it’s stamped, our son has wandered from his bed three or four times a night for the past several months. ahem…MONTHS. That my husband sleeps like a bear in hibernation is great. For him. But the loose translation is this: he ain’t the person waking up when our son does.
Or he certainly wasn’t until Saturday.
By which time our son’s internal clock roused his dad at one, three and five a.m.
That the dog would pick the same morning to have indigestion and frantically circle the hallway shaking his fur was the proverbial icing on the cake.
Only all that shaking didn’t pry my husband’s eyeballs open for a fourth time. But it should have because the dog wasn’t out there crying wolf. The guy had to drop twenty-three turds. As realized at six a.m. when my husband woke to the cat’s incessant meowing outside his door–and upon hauling the cat’s body downstairs, beheld the gift of a German Shepherd in dire straits sprinkled down the hallway.
I only know all this because I asked about the carpet shampooer resting against the picnic table outside. It hadn’t been there when I left.
All that to say how good it is to hug the ones I love again…
and dare I mention…feel appreciated.