It seems to be the name of the game, lately, since my husband’s on ‘rotation’. Mom doing it all, and behind schedule. Almost as bad as him being deployed, or TDY (away for official Army business, for short), except at least there’s no expectation of his return to help. When they’re gone, you know you’re flying solo, so it’s put up or shut up, it’s just you. When it’s like this, they’re lingering about, sometimes here, sometimes not, you aren’t sure if they’re going to be around to help or not.
You see, where we are is a training area for guys about to go to ‘the box’ aka overseas, they come here to train, to learn, to pretend they’re in combat. But when my husband is busy with this ‘rotation’, I’m a single mother, even if he comes home at night. Why? Because he doesn’t come home alone. He’s got his radio that needs his tender loving care. It’s loud, it’s annoying, and it’s demanding, and by God it doesn’t. ever. stop.
“Eight-three this is eight-seven, over.”
“Eight-three this is eight-five, over.”
They are always calling him, updating him about the smallest of things, it seems.
Soldier: “Eight-three, I’m here at base ops, about to go to the bathroom to wipe my ass, over.”
Hubby: “Roger, that’s a good copy. Hit me up if you need some more TP. If nothing follows, eight-three out.“
Or some other ridiculous nonsense. My husband has this little green Army notebook with which he writes all their things down in, too. I can totally see him doing it. Eight-seven goes to the head 1834 hours.
Oh, and let me tell you how much fun that radio is when the kids are trying to sleep.
So, because he monitors this radio when he’s home, you can imagine just how much stuff he gets done here, when he’s too busy walking around the house with the radio at his lips, ensuring he’s being heard. Kind of like when you’re walking around Walmart, trying to get a signal for your cell phone, there’s my husband, radio in his grip, the thing squawking at him for guidance, and me gritting my teeth in the corner, wanting the madness to stop, and my loving husband to respond to me when I talk, and not excuse himself every second to talk on that thing.
I need to keep myself in check. He isn’t overseas, he’s here, not being used as target practice by the bad guys. I know I’m lucky. I know I should be thankful.
But damn, I miss the extra pair of hands around here. For everything-under-this-roof to not have to be done solely by me, especially when he is home every night. My oldest has a girl coming over to sleep over tonight, and there’s an Easter party that demands my attendance this afternoon, laundry to be done, a house to be kept and vacuumed and wiped and…
I. Am. Not. Super. Mom.
So, as if you couldn’t tell, it’s been a week, and I’m still trying to catch up on things that should’ve been done the days prior, because I feel as though I’m a ‘man down’ around here without his help.
With the day-on, day-off schedule coming, too, this weekend and next week’s Spring Break isn’t gonna be any picnic, either.
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