I just did this, and I don't remember a single day of it being this hard. Apparently, some genius somewhere (and I have my suspicions who did this) decided that in order to fill the time between deployments, instead of them sitting around doing nothing, the Louisiana National Guard should be preparing and protecting southeast Louisiana from the soon-to-overflow Mississippi River. And while Corey, with his full-time soldier job, was spared from schlepping out into the sun and filling Hesco containers for days on end in places where the water probably won't rise all that much, we haven't seen him too much this week.
This has been a source of great consternation for me. I was ill-prepared for 24-hour workdays and coming home every other day to shower or retrieve medicine for a vomiting child (more on that later.) You would think, by the way I showed every inch of my indignance and moodiness this week, that I had never done this before. So then, like any good behavioral therapy patient, I have to examine the source of this anger and whether it is appropriately directed.
Corey is a different kind of dad than my dad was growing up. There were things that only my mom did and things that only my dad did, not very many of which were housekeeping items, and the two did not often mix. Now, as they've aged, they've taken on different roles. When my dad is done eating, he gets up and starts doing the dishes, including the one you may or may not be using, so it behooves you to eat faster than he does. He's also developed a love of the Swiffer, but that's not what this post is about. This is about how Corey, our pater familias, spreads his duties into the Mr. Mom category. I'm not the only one here who launders, folds and puts away clothes. Who cleans up messes and studies vocabulary words and study guides. Who packs lunches and makes breakfast. I am typically not the person who gets up and gets the boys off to school in the morning, though I am the person who collects them in the evenings.
Point is, this is a team event. There is constant communication about who is going to do what based on the mess that the requested parent is elbow-deep in at any particular moment. When The Cheese (that would be me) stands alone, after six months of realigning household functions to include even distribution of labor with a capable and willing partner, she gets right pissed about it (apparently) and her pleasing personality absconds. We do not know if he's coming or when he's coming until he actually stands up from his desk and walks to his car. The earliest we got him last week was 7:30 PM. Three nights he did not get to come home at all.
So I have run out of pitties with the military, BAH be damned. There's no satisfying place to direct my anger. I have the kind of relationship with my kids where I can say "this is a situation that makes me very unpleasant. I promise not to be grumpy or yell unnecessarily if you promise not to do X, Y or Z." Neither of them have any problem reminding me if I'm welching on our deal.
Imagine our delight when I got a call to come pick up Jake from aftercare on Thursday because he'd been throwing up and had fallen asleep in the cafeteria. When I picked him up, the throwing up continued, into buckets of sand toys we had in the back of the car. I took him to the pediatric urgent care, but the anti-nausea medication did not work, and the throwing up continued until about 8:30. My mother-in-law asked me if this was my first time with the stomach flu, which she said was really hard for her as a mom. I relate, because jumping up to bend your crying kid over a garbage can while he retches the tiny cup of liquid he just drank is pitiful. But I told her that I've seen Jake through so much emotional pain this past year, the stomach virus was no big deal. He was keeping food down the next morning. He ate three meals before his grandparents picked him up at 12:30.
Since we're not really flooding until the end of the week, we have an second week of Corey's Uncertain Schedule to look forward to, though they are giving him the day off on Tuesday and he's stated his intention to mow the lawn. I'm going to do two things: 1) not expect him home in time to help with anything, that way I will not be mad or disappointed when I have to do everything myself and 2) only allow myself ten minutes of pissy and pitiful a day. Okay, maybe fifteen.
.....
So I have run out of pitties with the military, BAH be damned. There's no satisfying place to direct my anger. I have the kind of relationship with my kids where I can say "this is a situation that makes me very unpleasant. I promise not to be grumpy or yell unnecessarily if you promise not to do X, Y or Z." Neither of them have any problem reminding me if I'm welching on our deal.
Imagine our delight when I got a call to come pick up Jake from aftercare on Thursday because he'd been throwing up and had fallen asleep in the cafeteria. When I picked him up, the throwing up continued, into buckets of sand toys we had in the back of the car. I took him to the pediatric urgent care, but the anti-nausea medication did not work, and the throwing up continued until about 8:30. My mother-in-law asked me if this was my first time with the stomach flu, which she said was really hard for her as a mom. I relate, because jumping up to bend your crying kid over a garbage can while he retches the tiny cup of liquid he just drank is pitiful. But I told her that I've seen Jake through so much emotional pain this past year, the stomach virus was no big deal. He was keeping food down the next morning. He ate three meals before his grandparents picked him up at 12:30.
Since we're not really flooding until the end of the week, we have an second week of Corey's Uncertain Schedule to look forward to, though they are giving him the day off on Tuesday and he's stated his intention to mow the lawn. I'm going to do two things: 1) not expect him home in time to help with anything, that way I will not be mad or disappointed when I have to do everything myself and 2) only allow myself ten minutes of pissy and pitiful a day. Okay, maybe fifteen.
.....
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