I have to admit, life feels a little . . . uneven without Drew around.
I mean, there’s no gnashing of the teeth, hair pulling, or crying into my pillow every night.
That’s just not how I roll.
However, I do find myself thinking of really stupid things.
Like how the mattress is going to wear unevenly. My side is going to be all flat and worn, and his side will be all fluffy and comfortable. If this mattress is ever used by two people again, the person who sleeps on his side will probably roll over and plunge down into the hole that contains me and about 17 of the bookmarks I tell myself I’m going to use when I read at night.
And since I can’t lift the damn mattress myself, I can’t rotate it around. And I’m sure as hell not going to sleep on his the wrong side of the bed. And it would be weird to be like, “Drew, can you come over here and help me rotate the mattress around so each side wears evenly? Thanks.” Maybe when I have that sleepover someone can help me do it.
And there’s all these boxes of cereal getting stale. Like, there’s not enough cereal in the boxes for me to bag them up and give them to him because it’s likely to make me appear spiteful and petty. “Here, take these 7 boxes of cereal! I know they each have less than 1 bowl’s worth in them, but take them anyway!”
I figure I’ll just wait until they get 100% stale and then toss them. Seems more humane than throwing them out before they’re officially inedible.
And there’s like, a million dishes in the sink. I never realized that he did nearly ALL of the dishes. And because I have no incentive to try to be a good wife who cooks, I’ve basically stopped cooking. Where are all these dishes coming from? Because I like to think I’m a good mother, I periodically toss some nuts and seeds on the kitchen floor and let the kids fend for themselves. But I certainly don’t use bowls or utensils. I should probably set up a hidden camera; there’s obviously a ghost.
And bedtime. Well. We used to each pick a kid and put that one to bed, rotating kids each night. Now I have to put both kids to bed by myself nearly every night. Well, not nearly every night. Every night. Starting this weekend, the kids are going to spend 4 nights per month at Drew’s, but up until now, it’s been me (fyi–this is due to his call schedule, not due to unwillingness on Drew’s part). He tries to help by putting them in their pajamas, feeding them their snack, and brushing their teeth at his house, but actually putting them to bed is left to me.
So . . . I’ve tried reading them both a story at the same time and then plopping them into their beds nearly simultaneously. Turns out, Dec will get all hyper if he’s not permitted to pick out the story and poke through it in his self-paced fashion. And Sydney likes books for older kids, and his jumping around annoys the crap out of her. And OH MY GOD if she attempts to read the book aloud, his hyperactivity increases by about 323% and she displays the desire to punch him in the neck.
So now I tell one of them to wait in their room while I read, snuggle, and have a nightly chat with the other child. The thing is, the one who goes to bed first feels resentful that the other child is there waiting for me. They feel pressured. And while the child who is put to bed second doesn’t feel the pressure of someone else waiting for me, he/she feels compelled to drag out bedtime as long as possible, at times using tears and guilt-inducing statements like, “but I’ll miss yoooooooou. I loooooove you, Mommy”.
And without another adult in the house, there’s no one else to do things. Let’s say one of them wants a drink of water but can’t reach the cups. Meanwhile, I’m upstairs sitting amidst a pile of unfolded laundry. Because 3 year-olds are 100% certain that they will perish if they don’t have a drink right this exact minute, I’m forced to abandon the laundry in a quest to find them a cup. I’ve found that there are approximately 173 distractions between the laundry room and the cabinet in which the cups are stored, resulting in me coming across a huge pile of unfolded laundry at midnight when I go upstairs to go to bed.
Yeah, and I CAN’T just walk by. That’s not how I roll. The effin’ laundry will just be there tomorrow. That damn ghost won’t fold it.
And those of you who are single moms/military moms/work widow moms are probably like, “Wah, wah, wah . . . get some real problems”.
Dude, you’d be right.
I’d rather be writing this than living with a man who doesn’t want to be here. That would be a real problem.
I guess I’m just . . . getting used to the new normal.
And I will.
Because that’s how I roll.